


A Moving Sea Between the Shores of Your Souls

by ShyThrush



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Blood and Injury, Canon-Typical Violence, Check individual chapters for warnings, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, F/M, Gen, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Whump, Good Parent Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Grief/Mourning, Hurt Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, I don't want to tag too much because all these stories sort of stand on their own, Injury Recovery, M/M, Major Character Injury, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Protective Jaskier | Dandelion, Some of these get dark folks, Whumptober 2020
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-01
Updated: 2020-11-01
Packaged: 2021-03-07 21:14:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 31
Words: 99,932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26754124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShyThrush/pseuds/ShyThrush
Summary: A collection of short moments that happen over the years, involving Geralt and his found family.Whumptober 2020 prompts.
Relationships: Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon & Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Eskel & Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Essi Daven/Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Comments: 160
Kudos: 202
Collections: Whumptober 2020





	1. River

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome, welcome! This has been a very long time in the making; I started writing for these prompts all the way back at the end of August, so some of these are fairly old. That being said, I currently have 16 days done, and I'm hoping to have them all done in time to finish up by the end of the month! So...updates daily, please check the chapter summary for any warnings regarding individual chapters, and thank you from the bottom of my heart for being here and for reading!

Geralt had told him not to move. In his most intimidating voice, while looming over him in a way that cast a shadow nearly twice the man’s own height. Jaskier was not intimidated by much; being a bard thickened one’s skin in a hurry. But Geralt, towering over him with a deathly serious expression on his face, was enough to make his heart pound. Besides, he had only known the Witcher for a few short months, and while he had grown attached to the man quite quickly, it was no mystery that his feelings were not reciprocated. Jaskier knew he was one bad choice away from being expelled from Geralt’s life permanently. And quite possibly violently, if the man’s penchant for swinging swords and fists was anything to go by. The thought of being without Geralt, now that Jaskier had tasted what his life was like, was almost unthinkable. And not just because Geralt provided inspiration for his art. As time had gone by, as they had travelled more and more together, Jaskier had come to value him. See his strength of character and resilience, his dogged determination to keep himself from hurting people. The bard would say without a doubt that he saw the man as a friend. However much he knew Geralt would balk at such a term. He was hopeless when it came to defining his own emotions, even when it came to something as simple as the pain of coming across a corpse on a hunt. Usually, he would frown and make some sort of noncommittal noise, leaving Jaskier simultaneously confused and saddened that anyone could be so out of touch with themselves. Although, he supposed that after a lifetime of hearing stories about how Witchers did not feel, one would begin to believe them. Jaskier knew he certainly had. Though it had not taken many days travelling with Geralt for that opinion to reverse. Even the mere fact that Geralt had ordered him to start behind today showed that he felt more than he would care to admit. 

Still, Jaskier was worried. There had been a contract posted on a noticeboard located at a crossroads a few miles back, asking for a Witcher, or anyone else who believed themselves capable of taking on a bruxa. However, the notice had been strange, in that it demanded that the beast be brought to a castle a few miles down the road, living. Upon reading the advert, Geralt’s forehead had wrinkled, and Jaskier thought he caught his gloved hand tightening on the reins a bit. He had decided to go investigate first, presumably to question the nobleman about why on earth he wanted a live bruxa. When Jaskier had offered to accompany Geralt, he had responded vehemently that the bard was not to leave the campsite, if he valued his life. Then, he had said he would, in all likelihood, be back before nightfall.

That was where Jaskier’s dilemma had begun. He had sat patiently through the afternoon, cooking up a small meal that he intended to share with the Witcher upon his return. Twilight had fallen, and he had strummed contentedly at his lute, contemplating various dissonances to add a touch of the exotic to his newest composition. But twilight moved on into crepuscular darkness, which in turn moved on into the full, velvety blackness of night. And still, Geralt had not returned. Jaskier had paced uneasily, and even built up the fire in case the Witcher had somehow become injured and was trying to find his way back through a myriad of horrifying wounds. But still, nothing. Eventually, Jaskier had laid his head down on a folded up shirt and tried to find some rest, dozing uneasily. Every sound woke him, every shifting shape in the trees cast a shadow across his closed eyes. Morning came too slowly, and when it did, the sun dawned on a campsite just as empty as it had been the previous night. Jaskier sighed, picking nervously at his calloused thumb, an anxious habit he knew he would regret the next time he picked up his lute. It was now far past the time Geralt had said he would be back, and the worry Jaskier felt was only compounded by the fact that he had simply set out to speak with some nobles, not to hunt. As far as ranking things according to danger went, this task should have placed fairly near the bottom, especially considering Geralt’s normal activities. 

Of course, there was always the possibility that Geralt had spoken with the nobleman, determined that his reasoning for wanting the bruxa alive was acceptable, and simply set out on the hunt directly afterwards. It certainly wouldn’t be the first time that the Witcher had departed for a hunt without letting Jaskier know where he was going first. But the bard simply couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong. Geralt had left his bag with all his potions at the campsite, and Jaskier knew that he never would have gone on a hunt without taking it unless victory was a sure thing. Having been on the receiving end of several bruxae during his months with Geralt, Jaskier knew a sure victory was far from a safe assumption to make. Bruxae were volatile, erratic and highly dangerous, and Geralt was good enough at his profession to never underestimate a foe. Jaskier tapped out a nervous rhythm on his thigh. Always indecisive, that was his curse. He also didn’t want to disobey what Geralt had told him; the man never spoke with such conviction unless there was a very good reason for it. Whatever Geralt had expected to encounter during his visit with the nobleman, it wasn’t a situation he thought Jaskier was prepared to handle. But, Geralt had underestimated him before. Jaskier was more than capable with a dagger, and completely willing to defend himself should the need arise. Particularly if Geralt had somehow ended up in danger. 

Sighing, Jaskier stood up and buckled on his belt, on which he carried a small, ornate dagger. He paced the campsite a few times, and shook his hands out nervously the way he would before a performance. He sat back down, thinking better of it, and then stood up again, turning on his heel a few times as he tried to make up his mind. 

“Fuck,” he finally sighed, “If I spend all day in this camp with all this pent up nervous energy, there won’t be a camp for Geralt to return back to. I’ll probably burn the whole place down.”

He tapped another nervous rhythm on his thigh, testing the wind, trying to orient himself. They were near to a river; he could hear it rushing and burbling through the trees, and had stumbled across a small stream in the woods that probably fed into it. Knowing what he did about castles, in all likelihood the one Geralt had sought out somewhere on the river. Noblemen were great lovers of convenience, and there was nothing convenient or economically intelligent about having to hire servants to lug water several miles to your keep. Jaskier cleaned up the camp as best he could, stringing all their valuable possessions up a tree and kicking dirt over the fire to make the place look uninhabited. Then, he made his way through the dense trees, cursing every time his coat caught on an errant branch or twig. The river had sounded deceptively close, but it took him nearly twenty minutes of crashing through the bush, stopping every five minutes or so to listen and reorient himself, before he found it. Clearly a glacial runoff from the mountains, the water was pale blue and silty, with a shallow, rocky bottom. The water crashed over the rocks in beautiful, silky rapids, deceptive in their elegance. Making his was carefully through the treacherous, slippery rocks, Jaskier knelt at the banks and dipped a finger in the water, bringing it to his lips to taste. It was clear, unspoilt, although slightly earthy in flavour. A castle full of servants, residents and lords and ladies would produce enough offal to leave a distinctive taste in the water downstream. Therefore, Jaskier determined that the castle was probably downstream of his current location.

Backtracking a bit to avoid the treacherous rocks along the shoreline, Jaskier began picking his way down the river. It widened out quickly, turning from a rushing torrent into a smooth, quick deluge. The water deepened in hue as well, showing an increase in the distance to the bottom. Jaskier shuddered at the though of slipping and falling into the water here. It was swift and deep, and not yet far enough away from the mountains to have lost the glacial chill of the ice from whence it came. Once, as a child, Jaskier had fallen into the river near his own family’s estate, and the chill had been enough to cause his bones to feel like they were cracking, turning to ice and shattering within him. He shivered despite the relative warmth of the day. Such a chill was nearly almost a death sentence for even the strongest men. He was lucky to have escaped with his life.

Picking his way around a bend, a distant fortress came into view, and Jaskier sighed with relief. His feet and legs ached from the awkward angles forced on them by the uneven riverbank, and he was beginning to fear that perhaps he had been wrong in his estimation of the castle being at the side of the river. Already, he had been walking for several hours, and the noon light was beginning to wane as the sun continued her slow journey across the sky. He shaded his eyes, looking up to catch the light. It was definitely closer to evening now than noon, and Jaskier’s heart was beginning to ache with fear for Geralt. Had he been making his way back to camp, Jaskier surely would have encountered him; traveling by way of the river was much wiser than trying to force one’s way through the bushes and trees. Wherever he was, Geralt was over a day late. Even had he been hunting the bruxa, he should have been well on his way back by now. Jaskier stopped and appraised the castle, tapping his toe on the rock he stood on.

The fortress itself was nondescript, except for the fact that it was built almost entirely of red brick, and sported a green, coppery roof. Most fortresses in this region were built of the grey stone, the stuff mined in the mountains, being that they were so close. Whoever had built this place clearly had the wealth and the means to have bricks made and imported from Skellige or the coast. The thought of barging in on such a lord made Jaskier feel more than a little apprehensive. Some lower baron or such he could have easily intimidated by introducing himself as the Viscount of Lettenhove. But whoever this man was, it was clear from the make of his home that he would not be impressed by such titles. 

“New plan,” Jaskier breathed nervously, picking at his callouses again, feeling more anxious than ever, “Perhaps I can find a culvert, some way in along the base of the wall. They must have a way to drain waste out of that place.”

His father’s own fortress in Lettenhove had one such thing, a small culvert at the base of the wall, covered by a locked iron gate. However, locks were of no consequence to Jaskier. He had been picking locks since he was a boy. Breathing a silent prayer to whichever gods or goddesses happened to be watching, he neared the fortress, trying to keep amongst the rocks and cursing his peacock-blue coat. The newest styles in Velen clearly hadn’t been made with stealth in mind, and Jaskier was paying for it now. Grimacing, he edged nearer to the wall, eventually getting close enough that he could flatten himself agains the base. There had been no guards that he could see along the top wall, a fact for which he was greatly thankful. He doubted he would have gotten as far as he had had there been sentries posted in the multiple watchtowers. 

So focused was Jaskier on working his way silently that he almost forgot about the river still running swiftly next to him, a velvety strip that cut into the land. When he stopped to wipe some sweat from his brow, straightening up with a groan, he saw something in the river up ahead. His heart clenched in his chest. 

“No, no, no, come on, even you can’t have luck that bad.” Jaskier rambled to himself fearfully as he crossed the rocks, hoping his human vision was faulty or he had simply mistaken what he thought he saw for something else. As he got closer, though, he saw it was no mistake. His heart clenched, and he felt simultaneously like screaming in fear and sighing with relief. 

“Well, at least now I don’t have to worry about finding a way into the castle,” the bard grumbled, trying to lighten his own mood, “Out of the frying pan and into the fire, as they say.”

There was still a part of Jaskier that hoped his vision was somehow faulty. If what he believed he was seeing was, in fact, real, then it was a practice so barbaric he had thought it long ago outlawed, especially in Kaedwen, always known for being peaceful compared to the other monarchies of the Continent. But as he got closer, he became more and more convinced. He almost felt tears pricking at his eyes. He wanted to storm the castle and kill every single man who had subjected Geralt to this.

About midway through the river, was a beam, dark in colour, like the ones Jaskier remembered lining the ceiling of Lettenhove in his youth. About two thirds of the way up, was another beam, running perpendicular to the first one, creating the shape of a lowercase T. And, with his wrists suspended from the ends of the horizontal beam, was a familiar silvery head, dangling dangerously low in the water. Clearly, it was only the waning strength of his arms that was keeping Geralt from slipping up to his nose in the water, condemning him to a slow death by drowning. And, as Jaskier watched, horrified, Geralt’s hold slipped for a second and he slumped halfway up his head into the water, before pulling himself together and struggling back out again. Even from his faraway vantage point, Jaskier could see Geralt’s arms shaking from cold and effort. He wanted to slap himself. It was possible Geralt had been like this since early last afternoon. No wonder his strength was flagging. And meanwhile, Jaskier had been relaxing at their campsite, only an hour’s walk away. Damn, if he wasn’t a fool.

Edging along cautiously, still aware of the looming threat of guards making an appearance along the wall, Jaskier worked his way up so that he was within Geralt’s eyeliner, crouching as far out on the rocks as he could get. It was a good thing, he thought sourly, that they had chosen a method of execution that brought Geralt outside the castle’s walls. There was no culvert along the base of the wall. If he hadn’t found the Witcher out here, Jaskier would have been forced to try to make his way in through the main entrance. Blessings usually came with curses, he supposed. 

Jaskier threw a rock into the water, hoping to catch Geralt’s attention without raising his voice. It landed with a dull plop, ripples fading away downstream, whisked away by the current. He twitched a bit, his head raising from where it was rested exhaustedly on his trembling shoulder. The moment his eyes caught Jaskier’s, though, he became far more alert, eyes flashing up to the ramparts. He shot Jaskier an irritated frown, but he slumped a bit in the water. The bard smiled a little; while he was clearly too far gone to express it, Geralt’s body language showed just how relieved he was that Jaskier had come.

“I’m going to swim out to you from upstream,” Jaskier said in a low, clear voice, trusting Geralt’s enhanced hearing to pick up his words, “And then we’ll worry about getting you back to camp.”

He noticed, with some relief, that Geralt’s sword and armour had been dumped unceremoniously on the riverbank a few paces away, and thanked their good luck. However, it did mean that there would be that much more weight for Jaskier to carry on their journey back to the camp. 

While considering how he would manage to considerable weight, Jaskier thought he saw Geralt incline his head in response to the bard. He looked exhausted and pale, and Jaskier found his heart racing every time he looked at Geralt’s face. He was even more ghostly pale than usual, more similar to how he looked when he downed one of his ghastly potions, and his hair was slicked tight to his scalp, water running down his face from when his strength had faltered and he had sunk into the rushing river. The only tint of colour in his face were the dark circles beneath his eyes; clearly the night spent in the river had been a restless one. Jaskier snorted surreptitiously; one would be hard pressed to spend a night in such a position comfortably. He doubted the combination of the freezing cold water and exhaustion would prove deadly, but Geralt was certainly in a bad way. They needed to get away from here, and quickly.

Jaskier picked his way through the shoreline more rapidly, occasionally placing a foot carelessly in his desperation to end his friend’s torment. There were several occasions when he found himself face to face with the river, only a well-placed hand away from toppling headfirst into its depths. When his face nearly brushed the surface, he could feel the icy chill radiating off the water, and he shuddered a bit. This was no place to die. Whoever had invented such a torture deserved to be punished by it, a hundred times over. Jaskier’s blood boiled at the mere thought of it; he hoped retribution would be swift for the lord who had sentenced Geralt to such a fate.

Finally, Jaskier found himself far enough upstream that he believed he would be able to swim out to Geralt’s location before the current swept him by. In a moment of inspiration before he plunged in, the bard removed his bright blue coat. Geralt’t things were soaked and freezing; he would need something to warm him when Jaskier got him back onto solid ground. Then, taking a breath half to fill his lungs and half to brace himself for the cold, Jaskier dove off the rock and propelled himself as far as he could through the air before hitting the water with an icy gurgle.

It took every ounce of Jaskier’s self control not to gasp in great lungfuls of water the moment he was submerged. There were tiny white bubbles roaring in his ears and over his eyes, and he could feel the icy hands of the current wrapping around his legs, pulling him away. And it was so damnably cold, Jaskier thought he might shatter. He simply floated for a moment, stunned, icy. Then, he remembered why he was in this hellish river in the first place, and kicked himself up to the surface. 

The current had carried him further than he had estimated, and he had to use every ounce of his strength to get to where he thought he saw Geralt, though it was all rather murky with his eyes half filled with water. Not for the first time, Jaskier was grateful for the skills his life on the road as a bard had taught him. One didn’t have to be thrown into an irate nobleman’s moat after being discovered with his wife very many times before one learned how to swim very well with a current. Jaskier allowed himself a small grin. He would have to tell Geralt that story, when he was well again. He could already see the expression on the Witcher’s face, part exhausted, and still very slightly amused at the bard’s antics. Jaskier was more than able to see past Geralt’s unamused exterior to know when his stories amused the other man. Geralt had quite a good sense of humour, on the rare days when the mood took him.

When he was finally within reach of the beam, Jaskier reached out with icy cold fingers, so numb that they nearly missed grabbing the slippery wood. He managed to catch it by a finger, then he solidified his grip and pulled himself up against the current, body pressed against Geralt’s frozen one. Holding on with one hand, Jaskier grasped the Witcher’s chin with the other. His head was lolling against his shoulder, and although his arms were still holding him above the water, he was clearly very close to falling unconscious. Any strength he still had was nothing more than muscle memory, pure survival instinct trying desperately to keep him from drowning.

“Hey, Geralt, I need you to wake up. I know you’re tired and it’s cold, but I need you to help me here.”

There was a thrill of panic in Jaskier’s stomach when Geralt opened his eyes blearily, and all the brightness and sharp intelligence was gone. They were dull, pale, and rimmed with red from the water splashing up into them. Jaskier had ti resist the urge to reach up and run his hand over Geralt’s face to get some of the water off. He could do that later. Right now, they needed to focus on getting to shore.

“There you are,” he whispered gently, struggling to keep a hold on the wet beam as the current continued to snatch at his legs, “I’m going to cut you lose, and then we’re going to swim back to shore, alright? Just a little longer and then you’ll be fine, I promise.”

A tremor passed through Geralt as he strained to keep himself above the water. His head was resting on the beam now, seemingly incapable of supporting itself. He blinked at Jaskier, clearly confused. Jaskier released the small knife he always kept in his boot and began sawing at the knots as Geralt got his bearings. It was truly another blessing, that these men had chosen to use rope instead of chains. Though, Jaskier supposed it was easier to unravel from a limp corpse once the victim had died. He swallowed back revulsion at the thought.

“Hmm…Jask? What’re you doing here?”

Geralt’s words trailed off into a slurred, nearly incomprehensible mess by the time he was done speaking, and his eyes slipped shut with the effort. Jaskier looked up, and his heart stopped for a moment. Geralt only ever referred to him as “bard”. Sometimes Jaskier on a good day, if he was in the mood for conversation. Never by a nickname. Although, Jaskier supposed it could just as easily be that his full name was too difficult to pronounce for the Witcher, who was probably numb with cold. He tried to shrug it off, knowing he was famously skilled at attaching meaning where there was none. Geralt saw him as an occasionally useful companion, nothing more. The last time Jaskier had called himself Geralt’s friend, the Witcher had backhanded him so hard he had seen stars. Though, afterwards, Geralt had bandaged his face, and allowed him to ride Roach for the rest of the day, grumbling the whole time about weak human constitutions. Jaskier smiled a little at the memory as he continued working at the knots.

“Well, you never came back last night. I waited for a while, you were very scary when you said I should stay at the camp. But, eventually, well, my curiosity overcame me. And so, here we are.”

Geralt gave no indication that he had heard the bard. His eyes were closed again, and Jaskier shook him roughly, trying to ignore the pang of guilt he felt at the action. Both of Geralt’s wrists were freed now, and the bard tried and failed not to wince at how reddened they were, nearly rubbed raw. The Witcher was now held up solely by Jaskier, who was clinging to the horizontal beam and trying to keep both their head above the water.

“No, no, you can’t fall asleep yet,” Jaskier panted with effort as he continued shaking Geralt, who was blinking groggily, “I just need to get you back to the shore, you just need to help me til then, and then I’ll get you back to camp myself, I promise. Just a little longer, please.”

Geralt blinked, and he must have at least partially understood, because he was making a valiant effort to keep his eyes open now, and Jaskier could feel him trying to coordinate his limbs enough to tread water.

“Alright, I’m going to let the current carry us while I swim us back to shore. Just focus on keeping your head above the water, okay? Here, you can rest on my shoulder.”

Jaskier allowed himself to almost fully submerge in the icy water, one arm wrapped around Geralt’s waist while he propped the Witcher’s head up on his shoulder. Geralt looked so tired, and after having spent even twenty minutes in the icy water, Jaskier was surprised he had survived at all. Already, he was trembling from cold, and beginning to lose feeling in his arms and legs. His fingers and toes felt detached, like they belonged to someone else. Jaskier tried to ignore this; damage to his fingers could mean the end of his career, and that was not something he was willing to consider. He didn’t even want to think about how Geralt must feel, after what was probably more than 24 hours spent partially submerged in the glacial river.

It was exhausting, trying to get the two of them back to shore. Jaskier could tell Geralt was too far gone to even be aware of what was happening, let alone be of any help. And the bard was breathless, unable to get in a proper gasp of air because he was floating so low in the water. He felt like he was drowning, running out of stamina and sinking below the surface, the only thing that kept him kicking his legs was the slow beat of Geralt’s heart, nestled against his shoulder. If nothing else, he could deposit the Witcher on the shore before allowing the current to carry him away. If only Geralt could sing, that would make a beautiful ballad. The heroic bard, floating away on the icy current, sacrificing himself for his truest friend…

Jaskier jolted suddenly as his boots struck the stony bottom of the river. He cursed, sputtering water, and Geralt jolted belatedly on his shoulder, coughing weakly.

“Sorry, you’re alright, we’ve just reached the shore and I wasn’t expected it is all. Try to rest, you’re alright.”

Geralt slumped back on Jaskier as he pulled both of them out of the river, bedraggled and sopping. The Witcher’s boots dragged uselessly on the ground, bumping over rocks as Jaskier hauled both of them out of immediate danger of falling back into the current again. He appraised their situation, relieved to see that they had not been dragged too far downstream of the castle, despite his weak attempts at swimming. Not that much further to carry Geralt before they reached their camp. Jaskier slumped, exhausted. He had no idea how he was going to get the two of them, as well as Geralt’s gear, back. He was running solely on adrenaline as it was. He shook the Witcher again, trying to rouse him.

“Hey, you need to wake up again,” Jaskier knew Geralt wasn’t truly unconscious, but he needed him to be more than barely awake if they were going to make it back at all, “If I let you lean on me, can you try to walk? I know you’re probably all sorts of numb, but if you can try, it would help.”

Geralt shook his head like he was trying to clear it. His lips were tinged blue, and with his deathly complexion, he looked halfway to being a corpse already. Tiredly, he gazed up at Jaskier, and nodded his head minutely.

“Good, good,” Jaskier breathed a sigh of relief; he would have had to leave Geralt’s swords and armour behind if he had had to take all the Witcher’s weight, and he knew Geralt would never forgive him for losing some of their most valuable possessions, “Thank you. You’re doing so well, it’s not that far now and then we’ll get you warmed up.”

It was likely that, had Geralt been more conscious, he would have slapped Jaskier for speaking to him in such a manner. As it was, with the bard barely keeping his footing and Geralt dragging his feet shakily along next to him, Jaskier doubted he noticed it. It was comforting, to keep up a monologue of sorts. It made Jaskier feel less like he was alone, in the middle of the wilderness, holding another man’s life in his hands. The implications of this were simply too much for him to deal with at the moment, exhausted and frigid as he was. The sun was well past its zenith, and the air was beginning to take on the orangey glow that suggested that dusk was fast approaching. And with dusk, there would come a dramatic temperature drop, one that Jaskier knew could be potentially catastrophic for both of them, in their frozen clothes. He collected Geralt’s armour and swords from the shoreline, grunting as he shouldered the extra weight. He also retrieved his blue coat, which he wrapped around Geralt’s shoulders. He was too broad to actually wear the garment, but it would suffice as a cloak for now. A small, more innocent part of Jaskier’s brain commented that the Witcher looked very fetching in the colour. And so, freezing and shivering and navigating the stones along the riverbank, Jaskier began the long trek back to the campsite, helping Geralt along beside him.

\----

It was well near night by the time Jaskier, half blind with exhaustion, stumbled back into their campsite. He probably would have missed it entirely, except for the fact that he nearly tripped over the stone circle enclosing the ashes of his fire from the previous night. Geralt was too far gone to realize they had stopped; his legs were uncoordinated underneath him and Jaskier doubted he was anywhere close to consciousness anymore. Gasping and sighing, the bard slumped down next to the remnants of the fire. Geralt sagged, insensible in his lap.

“Right,” Jaskier took a bracing breath and worked Geralt’s swords and armour of his back, “Let’s get you warmed up, hmm? Nothing a little fire and some dry clothes can’t fix.”

Jaskier had been building his own fires since long before he met Geralt, and it took him barely a minute to build a small pyramid with sticks and leaves and strike his flint. He realized it had been a while since he had built a fire this way, usually Geralt just used Igni. It was comforting, to have some of his own routine back.

Choosing to ignore his own still partially soaked clothes for the moment, Jaskier yanked his now ruined jacket off Geralt’s shoulders, and worked his shirt over his head. The Witcher’s lips were still blue, and he was stubbornly pale and disturbingly still. Surely, he should have begun shivering by now. Jaskier swallowed and peeled the wet material of his sleeves away from his arms, and yanked off his boots. They were nearly entirely full of water, and dumped all over the ground the moment they sucked loose of his bare feet. He then worked off the Witcher’s pants, cursing both the use of leather and the tight fit; they were nearly impossible to get off, especially considering that Geralt was no help to him at the moment. If he had been partially conscious when they first returned to camp, he was now completely insensible, limp and cold in Jaskier’s hands. The bard tried to swallow his own fear at seeing Geralt in such a state, so dissimilar from the Witcher’s normal of constant activity and quiet energy.

Jaskier slipped one of his own shirts over Geralt’s head and arms; he had no idea where in his saddlebags the Witcher kept his own clothes and now was not the time to waste precious minutes looking. He wrapped him up in blankets and dragged him close to the fire, and set about quickly changing his own clothes before rejoining Geralt next to the fire. The bard crawled into the wrap of blankets next to him, and wrapped his arms around Geralt’s frozen form, watching the mesmerizing pattern of the flames dancing and the sparks floating far away into the starry sky above them.

The bard must have fallen asleep, because when he awoke next, Geralt was moving next to him. He roused a bit, because the movement struck him as odd. When he realized what was actually happening, he sat bolt upright and gathered the Witcher into his arms, holding him close. Geralt’s eyes were wide open, and his teeth were gritted painfully, one hand fisting in the blankets. He looked up at Jaskier, and the bard had never seen him so open and vulnerable before. Shivers, a long time coming, wracked his frame in a way that looked nothing short of agonizing.

“Gods, why didn’t you wake me? This looks awful.”

Under normal circumstances, Jaskier never would have allowed himself to be so physically open with Geralt. But now, it seemed only practical. He held the Witcher close, and watched as he squeezed his eyes shut, trying to get words out past teeth that were clenching of their own volition.

“Jask…’s so cold…fuck.”

“I know, I’ve got you. You’re getting warmer, I promise. We’ve got a fire going, and you’re safe, and I’ll stay right ’til you’re well again.”

Geralt sighed, and Jaskier was surprised that such a statement actually offered some comfort to him. Normally, the thought of Jaskier spending long amounts of time in close proximity to Geralt would have brought a curse, and perhaps a glare. Jaskier was beginning to wonder if Geralt was more fond of him than he had originally believed. 

Geralt shivered on, and Jaskier eventually ended up running a hand through his hair and rocking them slowly back and forth in an effort to settle him. The night wore on into dawn, and eventually Geralt’s shivers calmed a bit, and his eyes began drifting shut. At one point, though, he wrenched them open, staring sleepily up at Jaskier.

“’S okay…if I sleep a bit?”

Jaskier nearly laughed, but it was a sad thing, a bit of mirth bubbling up from the longing and hurt he felt for the other man in the pit of his stomach.

“Of course it is, dear. You’ve only to focus on resting and getting better again. I’ll keep us safe.”

Geralt would definitely have laughed if Jaskier had said something like that when he was well. As it was, though, he curled up tighter in the bard’s lap, pushing his head into Jaskier’s hand when he stopped playing with his hair for a moment. It was mere seconds before the Witcher was asleep, the occasional tremor still wracking his frame. After a moment to make sure he wasn’t going to wake again, Jaskier eased him down onto the ground and went to build up the fire and brew some hot tea. Birds sung their early morning songs, and crickets chirped in the grass around the outskirts of the camp. When Jaskier spared a glance over his shoulder at Geralt, he looked far less pale, and his lips were returning to their normal colour. He still looked exhausted, but all in all he seemed to be in the clear.


	2. Dimeritium

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After many years without Ciri, Geralt is captured and nearly forced to divulge her whereabouts. Luckily, his daughter has grown up in the years since they last met.
> 
> Brief mentions of vomiting.

He was trembling. So weak he could barely get his arms underneath him to stare his guards down. It was embarrassing, truly. Geralt had promised himself he would stay out of Nilfgaard’s clutches, promised himself he would at least do that to keep Ciri safe. And here he was, the dimeritium clenched tightly around his neck sucking all his strength, staring down Nilfgaardian soldiers even though he knew he did not have the strength to defend himself. 

One of the guards kicked out at him, catching him a glancing blow on the ribs. Under normal circumstances, this would have been no cause for alarm, but Geralt already felt nauseated, the accursed metal making him ill. It was no help that the stuff was around his neck as opposed to his arms; it affected his gag reflex first, making him cough and choke miserably. He braced on his elbows and stared at the floor, hoping his captors wouldn’t notice how poorly he was. They did, though, chuckling amongst themselves. One grabbed the chain attached to the collar and gave it a hard yank. Geralt’s head smacked into the floor and he saw stars, felt a string of bile escape his mouth and pool on the floor. It had been years since he had felt this ill. Dimeritium was one of those horrors so inescapably evil that, the moment it was no longer torturing him, Geralt’s mind sought to block out all memories of what it had felt like. Now that he was under its effects, though, there was no escaping how hideous it made him feel. Like he had had several drinks too many, then gone and hunted a leshen with no potions. In short, it made him feel utterly defeated, too weak and miserable even to defend himself, which was the one thing he could always count on being able to do. It was frightening. Geralt tried to control his trembling, unsure if it was dimeritium-related fever or the simple shock of the position he was in. It would not do him any favours, to be seen trembling in front of a few Nilfgaardian guards.

“Bring her down.”

The voice was distant, and at first Geralt hoped he was imagining things. Dimeritium was known to cause hallucinations, and the extra mutations he had gone through only heightened its effects. There was only one person Nilfgaard would seek to capture in conjunction with himself. And he desperately hoped she was far, far away from this dungeon. It was so cold, and Ciri was human. Surely, she would freeze the moment they brought her down here.

Geralt lifted his head with great effort and realized that there were still two human guards down here with him. There was no frost building up on the windowpane far above. The freezing puddles on the floor of the cell were liquid water, not ice. Perhaps it was him that was freezing from the inside out, not the environment causing the sluggishness in his blood and his head. The thought both frightened and comforted him. At least, if they had Ciri here, she would be alright. He would be able to see her one more time. Geralt curled closed to himself, shivering and trembling. He tried to swallow back his nausea, but he could feel bile and spit trickling down his chin. Making the best of a bad situation. Yes, that was what he was doing. Definitely not dying. Because if he died, Ciri and Yennefer and Jaskier would never forgive him.

There was an outraged burst of noise from somewhere that seemed very far away. Geralt coughed weakly and fought against the lethargy threatening to pull his eyelids shut. A scuffling followed that sounded like boots being dragged down a flight of stairs. And then, he heard her sweet voice, yelling indignantly. He could almost see her fighting, and his heart sank. They had her. He had failed. Might as well give up right now. There was nothing more he could give them.

Then, he heard an agonized cry. Some scuffling noises, what sounded like a knife being drawn. A dull, sickly thud. Some groaning. All noises of death, noises that Geralt was acquainted with too well. And then, he realized it wasn’t Ciri they had killed. Her voice rang out loud and clear. 

“Geralt! It’s me, Ciri. Please, please wake up, I’m here, you’re alright, I’ll take care of you, I promise.”

Geralt hadn’t even realized his eyes had slipped shut again. He definitely hadn’t felt the hands on his face until there was a sudden attention being drawn to them. They were definitely Ciri’s hands, small and cold and delicate. Hands that should never have had to wield a weapon, but that he had taught to anyways. He could feel her callouses, buildup from training with a sword and a knife. Gods, it had been so long since he had seen her last. Clearly, she hadn’t neglected her training in his absence. In a twisted sort of way, Geralt was very proud of her. Perhaps she would be able to fight her way out of here. Move on to a life where half the Continent was no longer chasing her like a hunted fox. That was all he had wished for her, from the very beginning.

“Mmm…Ciri, ’s cold. Where’s…your coat.”

Ciri laughed, a strange, sobbing sort of thing, and Geralt felt something damp touch his face that was too warm to be the icy water of the dungeon. He opened his blurry eyes and squinted, trying to focus on Ciri’s face. When he finally managed it, he realized with horror that she was crying.

“‘M not…dying.” He tried to admonish her, but his tongue felt like it was stuck to the roof of his mouth, and his eyes kept losing focus on her face. When had he become so tired? Gods, he just wanted to rest. In a soft bed, with lots of blankets. And maybe something for his nausea. That would be good, right now. After years of separation from his daughter, he didn’t want to vomit on her boots within the first five minutes of them being reunited.

“Oh, Geralt, I know. I could never let you die, not now. I’ve only just found you again. And now, we’re getting out of here.”

Geralt managed to blink his eyes open again at that. 

“What?”

“I’m getting you out of here, Geralt. Yennefer’s going to help us, and we’re going to get you somewhere safe where you can rest and get well again.”

Rest. That sounded nice right about now. Geralt swallow again, trying not to throw up. He was too confused to wonder how Ciri planned on getting them out of such a highly secured location. Mostly, he felt cold, and he managed to register that Ciri had him cradled in her lap, one hand running through his hair. That was nice. It felt so warm. He trembled more, body shocked after being frozen and fevered for so long.

“I’m going to get this…thing off you. I’m not sure how it’ll affect you, so just…brace yourself.”

Geralt wondered what on earth Ciri was talking about, until he felt a sharp yank at the circle of dimeritium around his neck. He nearly choked, and he heard Ciri shushing him gently, and a gentle clinking of metal on metal. Then, gently, the collar was removed from around his neck.

The moment it was gone, Geralt choked again, in absolute agony as his strength and his ability to access magic came rushing back into him, as painful as heat after a long period spent out in the gaping openness of a winter storm. He gasped miserably, and fisted his hand tightly in the fabric underneath him, probably Ciri’s pants. He vomited dizzily, unable to control both his gag reflex and the immense amount of power flooding through him like water through a sluice gate.

“Shhh, you’re alright,” Ciri grabbed his clenched fist and allowed him to squeeze her hand, and Geralt made a valiant effort to curb his grip, knowing he had the ability to break her hand as if it were made of china, “I’ve got you, just try to breathe.”

Geralt wondered hazily when Ciri’s voice had become the voice of a woman and not a petulant little girl. She held him now with the experience of someone who had seen war, who was resigned to death and pain. Nothing about Geralt’s experience was horrifying to her, beyond that it was her father who was vomiting and shaking in her lap. Geralt had a sense that she had seen more in the last years than he would ever hear about. But thoughts made him feel sick, and he found himself unable to pursue the line of inquiry any further. He curled up, swallowing convulsively and trying not to vomit again. Ciri held him, squeezing his shoulders just hard enough to remind him that he wasn’t alone. Geralt shivered; the dimeritium had clearly been wrapped around his neck long enough to leave him with some negative effects. He was very fevered, and he doubted he would be conscious for much longer. 

“C-Ciri?” His voice trembled so much that he flinched in embarrassment, weak though he was.

“Yes, Geralt? Are you alright? Just a moment now, and Yennefer will help us. Any second, and we’ll be gone.”

“Think…’m sick…sorry I can’t help…more.”

There was that sobbing, choking giggle again. Geralt didn’t want to open his eyes. He already knew that Ciri was crying, and he knew he was responsible for it. He hoped she would forgive him.

“Oh, Geralt, I know. We’ll take care of you, I promise. You’ve done well, just try to rest. We’ll get you warmed up and feeling better, don’t worry.”

“Mmm…you’re good. At t-this.”

Ciri snorted.

“My bedside manner leaves a lot to be desired. You only need to ask my grandmother about that. She used to have me dragged out of the healers’ tents after a battle because I would ask the soldiers what was the most horrifying thing they had seen while fighting. Sensitivity isn’t exactly my strong suit.”

Geralt wanted to disagree, because she was being so good to him, especially after his own foolishness was the only reason he was here in the first place. A simple ambush should not have fooled him. He should have been more vigilant. But he was simply too tired, his consciousness drifting. He coughed breathlessly, and felt Ciri hugging him tightly to her, heard a distant whooshing noise.

“Ah…gods, Ciri. A portal? ‘M already hurting ‘nough.”

“Sorry. It’s the only way out. Yennefer said herself. It’ll be quick, I promise. And Yennefer’s portals are more than safe.”

Ciri stood up then, Geralt’s arm slung over her shoulder. He hung off her side limply, trying to get his feet underneath him, but not able to focus on much more than the way the flagstones were spinning underneath him. Someone wedged their shoulder under his other arm, and Geralt distantly recognized Yennefer’s scent.

“Yen…’s nice to see you.” Geralt was well and truly delirious now, and he was more than aware of it. Words spilled out of his mouth of their own accord, and his pain throbbed in time with his heartbeat. Where the dimeritium had been, his neck felt like it had been burnt, and he wanted to be sick, wanted someone to keep him warm. It was so damned cold, and he couldn’t stop shaking.

“It would be better if we didn’t keep meeting under these circumstances.” Her voice was sharp, and Geralt felt a little thrill at it. It had been a long time since he had seen her as well. Too long, and in his fevered state he was in no condition to hide his gladness, though he knew it was probably not reciprocated.

Suddenly, there was a jerking sensation just below Geralt’s navel, and he felt so nauseated he could barely breathe, let alone think. Vaguely, he was aware that the air was heavier now, more moist, and it had a different smell. But he was too weak to process the information. Hanging limply in between Ciri and Yennefer’s grip, he trembled from cold and allowed himself to slowly lose consciousness. 

\----

Geralt woke up and the first thing he noticed was that he was finally warm. His neck hurt to hell, and he felt very weak, but he was so warm it hardly mattered. Slowly, he peeled his eyes open, wincing at how they felt grainy and sealed shut. He must have been asleep for a long time.

Everything was blurry. The moment Geralt opened his eyes, he felt sick, but he could tell the brown blur above him was a wooden ceiling, and that the white in his peripheral vision were probably the walls of wherever he had ended up. There was a heavy weight on his left hand, as well, and he squeezed it experimentally. Ah. A hand. Probably Ciri, then. Yennefer would never hold his hand, even during his worst illnesses, of which this was definitely one. 

Ciri’s hand stirred in his own, and Geralt immediately felt a wave of guilt pass over him. He hadn’t meant to wake her; she had probably had a horrific night after getting him out of the dungeon. He could smell sweat and blood on the air; she hadn’t even had time to bathe.

“Mmm…Geralt?” Ciri’s voice was thick with sleep, and it harkened Geralt back to a time in Brokilon Forest, when he had held her in his lap as she sniffled and curled up in her sleep, no bigger than a fawn, “Geralt! You’re awake! How are you feeling?”

Geralt winced at how loud her voice was, and she immediately lowered it and apologized. The comedown from being shackled in dimeritium for several days was just as harsh as the aftereffects of Black Blood. His senses were screaming from overstimulation. He felt nauseated and sore.

“Tired. Sick.”

“Here, I’ve got something for that. Yennefer left it with me. She’s out now, but she’ll be back in a bit. I’m sure she’ll be glad to see you awake; she was very worried.”

Geralt doubted it, but he didn’t have the words to express it at the moment. Ciri placed a hot mug on his lips, and he sipped some ginger tea. That would settle his stomach, if he could keep it down long enough to allow it to work. Gods, he felt so sick. Miserably, he shut his eyes, wishing he hadn’t woken up. The wish made him feel weak. Witchers should be better than that.

“Better?”

“‘M tired, Ciri.”

“Go back to sleep. Yennefer said you’d be weak for a while, especially with the concentration of dimeritium in that collar. She dropped it when she picked it up, like it had burnt her.”

Ciri stumbled over the new word, her mouth still learning how it fit. Geralt was relieved. Glad that in her solo travels she had not encountered it, cruel though it was. He had not been able to protect her from much, but at least that was a horror she had never had to experience. And, if Geralt had any say in it, she would never have to experience. At least they were together again, and he could protect her now. Small mercies, in all the suffering they had experienced.

“Go to sleep, Geralt. I may not have seen you for many years, but I can still tell when you’re caught up in your own thoughts. You’re sick, and exhausted and very weak, and you need to rest. I’ll keep us safe, until you’re well again. There’s a fire burning, and we’re far away from where anyone will find us, and we’ll take good care of you. Just go to sleep.”

Geralt wanted to resist. Wanted to say he was fine, that he didn’t need anyone or anything. But this was Ciri, and he needed her just as much as she needed him. Besides, he was very sick, he could feel fever bubbling under his skin, and he was beginning to tremble again. Surely, just this once, it wouldn’t be such a bad thing, to fall asleep. To let Ciri look after him.

Geralt’s eyes slid shut as Ciri smoothed her hand over his forehead, singing a soft Cintran lullaby that Dandelion had once sung to him as well, many years ago, under similar circumstances. For the first time in a long while, Geralt was safe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed! Feel free to leave a comment if that's your style!


	3. Dress

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A hunt goes very badly wrong, leaving Geralt at the mercy of a group of grieving villagers, and his own conscience. 
> 
> TW: Child death is discussed a lot in this chapter, along with one instance of graphic description. If that's not for you, you may want to sit this one out.

Jaskier appraised the town square with the canny eye of a man who spent all his time watching, listening. One did not spend nearly two decades travelling the Continent as a troubadour and not pick up an innate knowledge, an ability to read any situation based on an initial, brief analysis. And, as was usually the case with situations involving Geralt, this one positively reeked of trouble. Heroics and heartbreak, Jaskier remembered saying, so many years ago. He hadn’t been wrong. Just perhaps a bit misguided in his lust for it. Now, the scent of trouble, wafting and filling the air with an unpleasant miasma, made his heart in equal parts lurch with excitement and fear. Of course, Geralt was usually capable of extricating himself from such situations. But usually it was at great physical or emotional cost, and Jaskier had no desire to see his friend get hurt. On the times when he was miraculously alright, though, Jaskier revelled in the details like a hot bath after months spent on the dusty road, soaking up every detail, unravelling the mysteries around the situation as though he were popping bubbles floating on the surface of a stream. It was a remarkably satisfying feeling, one that reminded Jaskier why he had chosen this particular profession from the outset. He was, if nothing else, a lover of mystery and intrigue. It filled the need his heart had for adventure. Not that he was exactly short of that, dogging the steps of the most renowned Witcher on the Continent.

Today, though, Geralt looked like anyone but himself, and it made Jaskier’s heart sink. Already, he could tell that this would not be one of those occasions when they retreated to a campsite, lounging around the fire while the bard tried to tease the barest scraps of details from his notoriously reticent friend. Even from his faraway vantage point, Jaskier could see that Geralt’s right eye was swollen almost shut, bruised and bloody. There was blood leaking from his nose in a way that the bard would have found unbearably attractive if it hadn’t been so worrying, and he was dangling loosely from the arms of two enormous men, boots scraping audibly across the cobbles, even from this distance. Two archers stood in front of him as well, bows trained at his heart. As though he were a flight risk in his current condition, Jaskier thought bitterly. He could barely keep his head upright.

The entire town square was silent. A bird chirped in the distance, and Jaskier’s heart jumped. It seemed the whole valley had stopped, was holding its breath. He supposed, for the residents, this was a historic day. It wasn’t every day that one succeeded in capturing a Witcher. Damn Geralt and his indestructible white knight complex. Needing to save everything with a beating heart, even when it was clear they intended to do him harm. Jaskier knew Geralt thought it was his lot in life, to be hurt by the people he was meant to help. That he had been made stronger, to endure those abuses. It was a belief that Jaskier had been unable to dissuade him from, even after many such episodes. Geralt staunchly denied any such need, but Jaskier had known him long enough to see through it. It pained him, though, to see Geralt go through this over and over again. He hoped the Witcher would be alright. No, that was wishful thinking. He would see to it that Geralt was alright, even if he had to fight his way through this entire godforsaken place to do it. He just had to get his timing right.

“Residents of Highvale!” A booming voice shattered the silence, snapping through the tension in the air like a lightening bolt. Everyone snapped towards the direction of the voice. Even Jaskier perked up his ears. It was a deep, commanding voice, attractive and demanding of attention. He shook his head, ashamed. He was here to rescue Geralt. Not sit and listen to the villagers who had beaten him to a bloody pulp.

“Residents of Highvale!” The voice called again, echoing through the small valley, “I bring before you today a criminal. A man who, by his own admission, failed to protect one of our own from a werewolf prowling the valley. He was brought here to help us, and instead he lost us one of the youngest members of our community, through his carelessness and selfishness. This should come as no surprise. Witchers are, after all, no more than beasts. Seeking pay so they can go whoring themselves at the first brothel that will take them. 

“Other villages may stand for such behaviour. But here, we will hold ourselves to higher standards than encouraging such debauchery. Especially at the expense of the life of one of our own!”

Jaskier had locked onto the man speaking now, a middle aged person with dark hair and eyes, thin as a rail, standing on the back of a cart as though it were a pedestal from which he were about to launch himself. The man was nondescript in every way. The bard didn’t blame Geralt for underestimating these people. The man looked like he was incapable of hurting a fly. And yet, even from this distance, Jaskier could see his knuckles were bruised and bloody. It had been him, who had given Geralt that bruised eye. Jaskier swallowed his rage, shifting through the crowd, trying to stay discreet.

As he moved closer, the speaker reached behind him and pulled something up, holding it in the air. The crowd gasped in horror, and Jaskier looked up and gaped, just as horrified as the rest of the onlookers. In his hand, the man held a dress, clearly one having belonged to a little girl. It was pink where it was not stained with dirt and blood, and there was a small, sad bow hanging limply off it. The garment fluttered in the wind, the bottom torn to ribbons. Somewhere in the crowd, an anguished wail lifted on the wind, and Jaskier felt the hairs stand up on his arms. There was only one kind of grief that he had ever heard make such an animalistic, soul rending sound. A mother, keening for her child.

“This is what he brought to us,” the man held the dress up like a flag of conquest on the field of battle, “The death of our own, of our Lyanna. Listen to her mother, people. Listen to her cries, and tell me that this beast should walk away unharmed, free to spend our grieving hearts’ money on some whore too frightened to refuse him.”

People were muttering amongst themselves now. Jaskier heard the telltale sounds as the people began to go from indifferent to outrightly hostile towards Geralt. Monster, they called him. Unfeeling. Less than human. A few women who were standing with their daughters reached out, clutched them closer. Whether they feared their girls would meet Lyanna’s fate or the fate of the hypothetical whore, Jaskier was unsure. All sorts of rumours circulated in these lands, created and exploited by men such as the one who stood now, like some twisted conqueror, victorious and clawing his way to renown through the bruises and blood of someone he had deemed to be lesser than himself. 

Jaskier risked a glance over at Geralt, and his heart lurched when he saw the look on the Witcher’s face. He was absolutely gutted, eyes fixed on the tattered garment still fluttering in the wind. He stared at it with a single minded determination, and Jaskier knew that Geralt thought he deserved this. That he deserved every inch of humiliation and every twinge of pain for having failed to save the little girl. The bard clenched his fists. He had to get Geralt out of here.

The man hopped down from the wagon, sauntered over and kneed Geralt in the gut, doubling him over. He didn’t groan, but he cleared his throat and hawked up some blood onto the cobbles. The man looked up, a sick grin spreading on his thing face, drawing the skin tight. Jaskier thought he looked like a mummified corpse, all harsh lines, with the light sucked from his face. Geralt didn’t try to get up; his knees buckled underneath him, leaving him hanging a few inches above the puddle of blood. The man kicked him a few more times, and Jaskier thought he heard something crunch. Then, in a final blow, the man swung hard at Geralt’s chin. His fist connected, Geralt’s head snapped back so quickly that Jaskier winced at the audible noise of his teeth clacking together. The Witcher’s head remained there, bent skyward with blood dripping from his mouth, a bloody sort of prayer.

“Leave him outside the gates with his things. He’ll not dare show his face here again.”

Before the man turned to go, he snatched the little dress from the wagon, and thrust it into Geralt’s limp hands. He must have still been conscious, because his fingers trembled and closed around it, clenching it tightly to his chest. The two men holding him up dragged him to the ramshackle gate and tossed him unceremoniously in the ditch outside. Jaskier noticed that Roach was already saddled and waiting outside the wall. His heart sank. He knew, realistically, he could not have stopped what had happened. Facing the villagers on their home turf would have been suicidal for the bard and likely caused Geralt more harm. But he couldn’t help but feel like he had done nothing but stand back and watch. Geralt deserved more.

The people began to disperse, returning to their market stalls and shops and fields. Someone slammed the gate, made of nothing more than stakes cut from saplings. As if that could have kept Geralt out, had he wanted to return. Satisfied no one would pay the Witcher any more heed, Jaskier slipped towards the small side entrance, unguarded during the day. As he exited, he heard a soft, keening cry. Turning back, he saw a woman, brown hair so long it was brushing the dirt. She was sitting on her porch, face cradled in her hands, whispering over and over again as she rocked back and forth.

“My Lyanna, my Lyanna.”

Jaskier wanted so badly to go to her, to offer some sort of comfort. His fatal flaw; his need to make everything right for everyone, to constantly trail around, cleaning up other peoples’ messes. But seeing this woman, whispering over and over for her daughter, left absolutely alone, he wanted to touch her shoulder, do anything to let her know she was not alone. He could not, though. In her eyes, he was a part of the orchestration of her misery, the bard who had arrived with the Witcher who had allowed her daughter to die. He turned his back, wondering if this was what Geralt felt every time he left a village after an unsuccessful hunt, blamed for the death wrought by some beast that he had tried to kill. Jaskier didn’t think he would last very long as a Witcher. Already, his heart was tying itself in agonized knots as the mother continued her soft keening. He exited the town, trying to block the sound from his ears until the wooden door shut smartly behind him, erasing the noise entirely. He sighed, leaning back against the outside of the wall. And then he remembered Geralt.

Jaskier almost tripped over his feet in his headlong dash to where he had seen the two burly men deposit the Witcher, suddenly horrified that Geralt had lost consciousness and was in the process of drowning in the ditch. But when he got closer, he saw Geralt, sitting next to the ditch, emptying his boots of stagnant swamp water. The little dress sat in his lap, and his eyes were red-rimmed. He looked wrecked, emotionally and physically. Jaskier approached with caution, trying to be noisy enough to let Geralt know he was coming without bothering his highly attuned senses.

“Geralt? Are you alright?”

As soon as the words left Jaskier’s mouth, he knew it was an idiotic question. As if Geralt would ever admit to being anything but alright. But as he got closer, he saw a tremble in the Witcher’s shoulder, the way his head hung uselessly, supported only by his hands. His boots were dumped next to him, a soaking mess, and his feet hung bare in the ditch.

“You’ll catch your death sitting there with you feet in that water. Come on, let’s get your boots back on.”

This was an unfailing strategy with Geralt; simply act as though everything was business as usual until the man finally confessed what was wrong. But the Witcher didn’t move, and Jaskier snatched up his boots and moved to sit next to him instead.

“You look half frozen,” the bard whispered gently, “Let’s get somewhere where we can make a fire.”

Geralt looked up at him, exhaustion showing in his one eye that wasn’t almost completely swollen shut. His whole face was a bloody, broken mess.

“Oh, Geralt, your poor eye. That looks horribly painful.”

He simply sighed, and reached out a shaky hand to accept his boots, which Jaskier handed over. He didn’t even make it halfway through bending over to put them on before he sucked in a pained gasp, one hand going up to clutch at his chest. The little dress was still there, and his fingers wrapped around it almost unconsciously, clenching it to him.

“Here, let me help with your boots. You’ve probably cracked some ribs, it’d be best if you just try to rest. It’ll be hell to ride with if they break.”

Geralt slumped, and Jaskier swallowed some panic. He had never seen his friend this pliant, like he was operating on muscle memory alone, taking Jaskier’s every word as a command. It was as though he simply didn’t have the energy to do anything else. His hands, shaking and dirty, stroked the ribbons on the dress. Blood trickled from his nose and mouth, and when Jaskier was done yanking his soaked boots onto his feet, he gently wiped it away with his sleeve. Geralt jerked away, alarmed, and looked up at the bard.

“Your doublet…” he muttered exhaustedly, concern showing in his good eye.

“Leave off,” Jaskier said gently, “It’s alright. Can’t have you riding around the countryside looking like a bloody corpse. I’ll buy a new one. It needed replacing anyways. Out of fashion, you know. Now, let’s get you on Roach and get out of this godforsaken place.”

Geralt made absolutely no move to get up, and Jaskier eventually held out a hand, which the Witcher took without question. He placed nearly all his weight on the bard, and Jaskier grunted under the strain but dug his heels into the loamy earth, doing everything in his power to stay put as Geralt pulled himself to his feet. Once upright, he swayed, hunched over his broken ribs, blinking furiously at the change in altitude. Jaskier quickly slipped himself under Geralt’s arm, bearing the brunt of his weight on his shoulder.

“You’ve probably got a concussion as well, so just take it slow, I’ve got you.”

Geralt looked horribly dizzy, blinking owlishly at his surroundings with pupils that were blown far too wide. He still clutched onto the dress like it was a lifeline, and Jaskier couldn’t bring himself to even consider trying to pry his fingers away from it. The two of them made their way over to Roach, Geralt wobbling on unsteady legs. Jaskier gave him a boost into the saddle, and once he was up, he managed to keep his seat, grasping the reins and gently nudging the horse with his heels.

“Let me lead her for a bit,” Jaskier offered, holding up a hand to take the reins, “You look dead on your feet.”

He decided to leave out the part about how Geralt was currently steering Roach off the side of the road; his eyesight was probably more than a little off, what with one eye being swollen halfway shut and both of his pupils letting in far too much light. Geralt let the reins slide from his limp fingers, and Jaskier eased them over Roach’s head, clicking his tongue softly to get her moving in the right direction. Geralt’s head slumped forwards the moment he no longer had to look where he was going, and he buried his face in the bloody pink fabric of the dress. Jaskier stopped Roach, and he swayed, but didn’t appear to notice.

“Do…do you want to keep that? We could leave it, you know. Bury it somewhere.”

Geralt didn’t move, and Jaskier wasn’t going to push the matter, so he clicked again, signalling Roach to walk on. He wanted to get as far away from here before nightfall, or before Geralt simply passed out from exhaustion and headache. At this point, he wasn’t sure which one would come first.

\----

When they finally stopped, darkness was beginning to creep in. There was a chill on the breeze, and the air had a fresh breath that it only takes on before the sun sets. Jaskier found himself shivering despite his cloak and doublet, and when he turned he saw that Geralt was slumped in the saddle, fast asleep. The Witcher was resilient, and Jaskier wasn’t worried about the concussion being a danger now that he was resting. He was, however, worried about waking his friend. Geralt still had the little dress, held limply between his fingers. His brows were creased. Whatever he was thinking of, it was clear that his sleep was not a restful one. The bruises on his face had gone from the pink of a fresh hit to a deep greenish-purple. Jaskier wanted nothing more than to spread some painkilling salve on them and let Geralt sleep. The man looked horrible. Jaskier hoped he would talk, when he was ready. What the bard had witnessed today was not something that could, or should be pushed under the rug. 

They came across a suitable clearing a good ways off the road, and Jaskier stopped, Roach coming to a stop behind him, her nose pressing into his shoulder. The bard looked up, expecting Geralt to have stirred at the sudden stop, but he was still fast asleep. The air was quiet, but for the chirping of crickets and the burbling of a brook nearby. A perfect camping spot. Perhaps they could spend a few days here, while Geralt recovered his shattered nerves.

“Geralt, wake up,” Jaskier put a gentle hand on his friend’s leg, and Geralt started, coming awake with a jolt so sudden that Roach spooked a bit underneath him, backing up nervously before Jaskier grabbed her reins and put a calming hand on her nose, “It’s alright. I found a place to camp for the night. If you get down, I’ll make a fire and we can have something to eat. You look cold.”

Geralt swung his leg over Roach, a numb, empty expression on his face. He hit the ground with a grunt, knees buckling a little before he regained control of them, one hand wrapping protectively around his abdomen. Jaskier offered his shoulder, and Geralt slung his arm around the other man’s shoulders with no comment, limping stiffly to a tree where he lowered himself to the ground with a long, groaning sigh. Jaskier handed him his cloak, and Geralt wrapped it tiredly around his shoulders, making no effort to close the clasp or do anything more to ward off the night’s chill.

“You know, that’d be more effective if you actually did it up.”

Geralt made a gesture at his chest like he couldn’t have been bothered less by such ridiculous things as the cold.

“Go ahead.”

Jaskier blinked. He reached down, cautiously, and did up the cloak. Geralt didn’t make eye contact with him, didn’t acknowledge him. One hand was still fisted in the little dress. The bard, concerned enough already, knelt in front of Geralt.

“I’m going to make a fire. And then we’re going to bury that dress. Because whatever happened to that little girl, it was not your fault. And you can’t just go around carrying your guilt with you like this. You’ll waste away. No one can handle such a weight. Not even you.”

Fingers clenched tighter all around the dress, and Geralt answered the bard in a voice that was broken, cracking at the seams and trying oh so very hard to remain composed.

“I…she was already dead. When I got there, she was already dead, and there were…wolves…eating her. In broad daylight. She had this hair, all brown and curly and it looked so soft. And I couldn’t…there was nothing I could do. She was already gone, and I brought her body back, to give her to her mother. And they thought I killed her.”

On the final note, Geralt’s voice broke completely, shattering into a million pieces of heartbreak and grief and inability to ever simply stay neutral, stay the lesser evil. Because he had to bring the girl’s body back. Even though he probably knew what would happen to him if he did. As he spoke, his hands released the dress, which lay in his lap, shivering ever so slightly in the evening breeze. Jaskier looked at it, stared up at the Witcher, who was trembling even though there were no tears on his face. Jaskier wondered if Geralt even knew how to cry, if he had ever been that honest with himself.

“You did everything you could. There was no way you could have gotten there sooner, and you know that. You left as soon as you found out there was a contract. You…you saved other girls like her.”

Geralt slumped forwards suddenly, and Jaskier caught him on his shoulder, wondering if he had passed out until a pained breath hissed through his teeth. Clearly, the bending over was doing his ribs no favours, and Jaskier gently pushed both of them back against the trunk of the tree, Geralt’s face pressed into his shoulder, back trembling from tension and pain.

“Come, let’s bury it. You know, it’s a beautiful spot here. With the brook, and the birds singing. It’s peaceful. The way a little girl deserves to rest. There’ll be butterflies here in the spring, with all the wildflower bushes. I think she would like that, don’t you?”

Geralt didn’t answer, but Jaskier gently leaned his head back against the tree trunk and got out his small dagger, digging a shallow hole next to the base of the tree. Some roots poked into the whole, enveloping it. When Jaskier was done, Geralt gently folded the dress with the same meticulousness he folded his own clothes with after washing them. His eyes were squeezed shut, and he placed it gently in the hole without ever looking. Jaskier covered it with dirt, watching the last traces of soft pink disappear, and was about to cover the disturbed earth with a rock when Geralt’s shaky hand grabbed his wrist.

“Leave it.”

“What?”

“Leave it. So it isn’t crushed. She…she doesn’t need that weight.”

It was possibly the most irrational, sensitive thing Jaskier had ever heard leave Geralt’s mouth. He leaned over and wrapped his arms around the Witcher. Geralt dropped his head onto Jaskier’s shoulder with a harsh, shuddering sigh.

“Let’s get your ribs bandaged and put some salve on those bruises, yeah? Then I’ll make us something to eat and you can sleep a bit. I know you’re tired.”

Jaskier felt Geralt’s nod, and he pulled the Witcher’s pack towards him with his toe, not wanting to disturb Geralt more than he needed to. He got out some arnica salve to relieve pain and bruising, and slipped his fingers underneath Geralt’s shirt, spreading the salve across his heavily ridged chest, feeling his hands bump over scars and tense muscles. Then, he eased Geralt’s head back against the rough bark of the tree and rubbed some more salve around his swollen eye. Geralt sighed softly and let his eyes fall closed exhaustedly.

“You’ve got a concussion, and you’re probably exhausted, even though you aren’t saying anything. I’ll get you a blanket and you can lie down and rest some, alright?”

“…Yeah.”

Jaskier wrapped his own wool blanket around Geralt’s shoulders, knowing it was probably far warmer than the threadbare blanket the Witcher usually used, claiming immunity to the cold. Geralt sagged sideways tiredly, his eyes going a little crossed, and Jaskier smiled and tucked some hair out of his face as he helped him lie down.

“Just rest for tonight. We’ll talk about…all this tomorrow, when you’re feeling a bit more yourself again.”

Geralt nodded sleepily, his eyes falling shut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was one of my favourite prompts to write for all of the month, so I really hope you guys all enjoyed reading it as well. My deepest thanks for all the wonderful comments and kudos you've left on previous chapters, they really mean the world to me! Feel free to leave me a note here as well if you feel like it, and thank you so much for reading <3


	4. Cavern

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt is hired to rescue a little girl stolen from her family. Unfortunately, the demon that took her is far from the most dangerous thing they encounter.
> 
> CW: Brief mentions of child death. Canon typical blood and guts grossness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi hey hello! This one was one of my favourite pieces to write. Before you dive in, I should probably address that a dziwozona is typically a swamp-dwelling creature. However, I took some creative liberties here. Caves can be swampy, as well, so I figure it's not that much of a stretch...enjoy!

It was absolutely pitch black, and Geralt, in his eternal wisdom, had taken all his Cat before entering the cave. Now, after nearly six hours of hunting through empty caverns and tunnels, the effects of the potions had all but worn off, leaving him running nearly blind, expecting at every turn for a dziwozona, or similar child-snatching hag, to erupt from the inky blackness. Geralt hated hunts like this, searching for hours for something that could pop out of the shadows at any moment. Give him an opponent that presented itself, free of illusion and mystery, any day. But dziwozona were creative, cunning. They hid themselves and their prey well. And not only had Geralt been tasked with killing the offending demon, but also in rescuing her most recent prey, a little girl of seven who had been abducted not two hours after he had arrived in the village. He knew dziwozona usually kept their prey alive, until they died of starvation or dehydration. They were, after all, women who had died in pregnancy or childbirth. They sought affection, sought children of their own, but were unable to care for them once they had stolen them from the home and replaced the stolen child with a changeling. Geralt guessed the girl had weeks to live, and he hoped desperately some ill had not already befallen her. The mother had been distraught, and when Geralt had heard her describing her little girl, with blue eyes and blonde hair, he was reminded of his one encounter with Ciri in Brokilon Forest. What if it had been her, stolen and carried off to this murky abyss? Geralt suppressed a shudder. He had to bring this little girl home. Of all the things he would permit himself to fail at, this was not one of them. 

Every step Geralt took echoed with crashing reverberations through the cave, and from that he could guess that he had entered a larger chamber, probably one filled with water, based on the slightly out of time echoes, as though the sounds were bouncing off two different types of material. Geralt took a deep breath. Of all the places the dziwozona could hide, this was by far the most likely. There would be fish here, for her to try to hunt and feed to her ill-acquired offspring. Not that she would succeed. All children stolen by dziwozona died eventually. It was only a matter of time, and already Geralt could feel the clock of this particular child ticking, precious seconds evaporating into the velvety darkness around him.

Suddenly, there was a rushing sound to Geralt’s left. He barely had time to draw his sword and turn, before the thing was on him. He couldn’t see her, but he knew well enough what she would look like. A decaying old woman, flesh slipping from bones, a caricature of life as she was in death. It was a picture the Witcher had seen a hundred times before, and not one he had any great desire to see again. 

He quickly shaped his fingers into Igni, and a blast of light illuminated the chamber. Geralt gasped and leaned backwards in alarm when he was greeted by the sight of long, dirty talons passing inches from his nose, lank hair and a slavering mouth not far behind. She shrieked, when he lit her on fire, and clutched her stomach. This struck Geralt as odd, since she was burning from her hair, not her body. As he got closer, intending to deliver the killing blow, he heard her voice, a shivery, spine-chilling whisper.

“You…burned her! My baby! You burned her!”

Geralt stared down at the demon’s stomach, which was distended, but not by pregnancy. Dziwozona were demons created by a failed pregnancy or labour, but they could not become impregnated once created. The only explanation he could think of was that this woman, in her dying moments, had still been with child. She snarled and snapped up at him as he drove his silver sword into her head, and for a moment, the lank, greasy hair and slippery grey skin were gone, revealing a pretty woman in her early forties, with long, black locks. She looked up at him, terrified, a scream building in her throat. Her hands still had long, freakish talons, and she stared at them in horror. For a moment, the whole cavern was still. And then, she exploded, the fire in her hair extinguishing as her guts and chunks of flesh splattered every which way. Geralt shut his eyes just in time, wincing a bit as chunky bits of flesh clung to his face and dripped down his chest and legs. Gods. No matter how many times it happened, he never got used to the feeling of hot flesh, which moments ago had been part of a living, thinking, being, being splattered all over him. It was horrible, and Geralt wanted to get out of this place as quickly as possible.

Unfortunately, there was still the matter of the girl. She had not been with the dziwozona, and he could not hear the telltale sounds of breathing or a heart beating in this cavern. With its echoing acoustics, such a noise would have been hard to miss. She was not here. And that meant delving deeper into the tangled system of caves.

Trying not to let his constant vigilance get the best and overwhelm him completely, Geralt navigated his way by sound to what he thought was the edge of the underground lake, and splashed some water on his face and arms. The stench dissipated a bit. It would be no use frightening the girl before he even had a chance to explain that he was there to help her. Though, he supposed that was one good thing that having no more Cat had done for him. At least he no longer looked quite so monstrous.

Geralt hauled himself back to his feet, and tapped his foot gently on the stone floor, attuning his ears to the echoes it created and making a rough map of the cavern he was in. If his estimations were correct, there was another passage off in the direction from which the dziwozona had come. Most likely, the girl would have been with her, hidden away somewhere in her lair. Geralt stepped off carefully across the shore, taking extra time to allow his toes to feel for stones so he didn’t trip and fall onto a sharp rock. Suddenly, the sounds and echoes around him, sparse as they were, became far sharper, far more immediate. He had entered into a smaller passage. And if that hadn’t alerted him, the smell most certainly did. There was a certain stench given off by rotting corpses, that could not be mistaken for anything else. The Witcher winced. He had hoped not to encounter the bodies of the demon’s other victims. If only he had gotten here sooner, ridden a little bit faster, stopped for one less ale, perhaps he could have saved them, too.

Geralt shook his head. There was no use contemplating that now. Besides, he could see a light flickering in the passage up ahead, weak flames flickering off the damp cavern walls. He blinked a few times, contracting his pupils a bit; they had been blown so wide he doubted his amber irises had been visible at all.

As he ventured closer, Geralt heard the sobs. He put his hand on the clammy stone wall, and approached the corner cautiously, not wanting to frighten the girl. She was already muttering, over and over again, to herself. It sounded like some kind of prayer, and the words of it nearly made Geralt’s step falter. He could not imagine Ciri, sitting there, saying those same words. It caused him some strange sort of physical pain, deep in his chest. He clutched at it, confused, until the pain passed.

“Please, please, please, miss, don’t hurt me. I didn’t do nothing wrong, I just wanna go home, please, I miss my ma, please don’t hurt me, please…”

Geralt peered around the corner. The little girl was sitting on the floor, bathed in the glow of a single torch which was jammed in the wall above her. Nothing secured her to the floor or walls, but Geralt knew there was no way she could have left, especially not with a demon hovering over her. Her hands were clasped together, as though she were worshipping some strange god, and her dirty hair clumped together, damp and sweaty from the moist cavern air.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” Geralt stepped into her small pool of light, not wanting to frighten her, “Your ma sent me, from the village. I’m here to take you back to her.”

The girl scrambled backwards, her eyes wide with horror. She pressed her hands against the wall.

“You…you could be anyone! You could be that horrible woman who brought me here! I wanna go home, I want my ma!”

The girl’s speech quickly devolved into wailing, sobbing hysterics. Geralt stared at her, utterly out of his depth, and settled for walking over and patting her awkwardly on the head. The wailing did not cease, so he let his hand drop uselessly to the floor. The girl sniffed wetly, her face red and howls still erupting from her mouth.

“Just…just calm down, alright? I can’t get us out of here if you keep howling like that. It could attract any number of unsavoury things that live in this cave, too, and if you think I’m going to fight them off because you couldn’t keep your mouth shut, I won’t.”

The little girl clamped her lips together. Her face quivered, and she glared up at Geralt, a single tear making a track down her filthy face. The Witcher felt a bit of remorse for lying to her. At least it had stopped the awful shrieking.

“Good. Now, what’s your name? Mine’s Geralt, and I’m a Witcher.”

The girl gulped, and drew in an extremely long, shuddering breath. For a moment, Geralt was afraid she would start wailing again. It wouldn’t be the first time the revelation of his profession had inspired such a reaction, but he had assessed that it would probably be best to be blunt and honest with the girl. She composed herself a bit, much to his relief.

“Triss.”

“That…that’s a good name. I have a…friend by the name of Triss. She’s an exceptional mage.”

Triss gaped at him.

“You have a friend who’s a witch?”

“Several. Now shut your mouth. There are all sort of evil gases in the air down here. Best not to breathe them in more than necessary.”

Triss’s mouth snapped shut so hard her teeth clacked together, and Geralt winced sympathetically. He had been on the receiving end of enough blows upside the head to know the sensation was not pleasant, even when it was self-inflicted.

“Are you hurt, Triss? Can you walk out of here if you follow me?”

“She scraped my knee,” Triss pouted petulantly, “The horrible lady who brought me here. Dragged me along the rocks and everything. Look, it’s even bleeding.”

Triss thrust out the offending knee for Geralt’s inspection. The blood was mostly dried up.

“I’m sure your ma can tend to it when we get back to the village.”

Triss scrambled to her feet, and tested her weight, looking comically relieved when her knee didn’t buckle. Geralt rose to his feet next to her and yanked the torch out of the wall. It was nothing more than a piece of cloth drenched in oil wrapped around a stick, but it would have to do. The Witcher wanted to get Triss out of here before she had to see any of the corpses of her predecessors. He could smell them even more strongly from here, and he would do anything to avoid the little girl having to see such horrors.

“You did kill her, right?”

Geralt turned, and saw Triss was right behind him. She had clearly gained back a lot of pluck, now that she was in the company of a stranger with two very large swords. Oddly enough, the thought made Geralt want to grin a bit. No one had ever described him as being particularly confidence-inspiring, bluntly realistic as he was. Though, he supposed almost anything was an improvement on dying as the kidnapped child of a swamp demon.

“Yes.”

“I figured. You know, from the smell. And the…blood.”

Triss gestured vaguely at Geralt’s chest, and now that he was able to see himself, he saw he was still streaked with dziwozona guts. He winced a bit. It was a good thing Triss hadn’t run screaming from him on sight.

“I wouldn’t have come here if she was still alive. Now, follow me. Caves are notoriously difficult to navigate, and I won’t be coming back for you if you wander.”

Suddenly, there was a warm touch on Geralt’s hand. He looked down, startled, and saw that Triss was clinging to his hand with her two tiny ones. She snuggled close to his side.

“Is it dark? Out there, in the caves?”

“Yes.”

“I’m scared of the dark, Geralt. I…I don’t want to be alone in the dark.”

“I’m going to bring the torch. Would you like to hold it?”

Triss nodded, and Geralt passed it to her, trying not to question the wisdom of letting a girl who was probably no more than six hold a large, flaming stick. At least it gave her something to do. It was better than the infernal wailing.

\----

They made it a good way through the cave system before they encountered any issues. In fact, Geralt was just beginning to wonder if they would escape without any further difficulty. He was rather surprised. It had been a while since he had taken a contract that had gone off with no hitches.

Then, as they were wending their way through the large tunnel that led to the exit, Triss clinging tightly to Geralt’s hand, he sensed something. It beat on his inner ear, a simple shift in the air. A change in the landscape surrounding them. For a split second, Geralt was unconcerned. And then his brain caught up with his body, and he understood the implications all too quickly. There was a glimpse of light ahead, a dull flickering of freedom. Geralt shook his hand away from Triss’s and gave her a hard shove forwards. She looked up at him, outraged, but he shoved her again.

“Run. Now.”

The walls were shifting now, delicate clay slipping and sliding together, running with too much moisture from several weeks’ worth of rainfall. Triss’s eyes widened, and Geralt saw her knees lock, virtually gluing her in place as she watched the cavern walls slip and slide around her. Small bits of gravel began raining down on them. For a moment, Geralt’s pure survival instinct kicked in. If he ran now, he could get out of here before the whole place fell down. Possibly prevent a long, painful death by suffocation. But Triss’s legs were locked in place, her eyes wide open with horror and terror. The torch had fallen from her limp fingers and was guttering miserably on the damp floor. Geralt couldn’t leave her here.

He wrapped his arms around her waist, and she slumped, limp in his grip, clinging to his shoulder. Her shoulders were trembling, but all the earlier hysteric screams were gone. The only sound was the shuddering upheaval of the cave, and the progressively larger stones raining down on the floor. Geralt ran forwards as fast as he could, slightly off balance by all of Triss’s weight pulling him down on one side. The light at the end of the tunnel grew a bit brighter, and the trembling of the cave walls seemed to have stilled for a moment. For barely an instant, Geralt allowed himself to nurture a small spark of hope. Perhaps they would make it out of here, after all.

Then, with a great shuddering, slipping noise, the cave began to close off behind them. There were some larger boulders beginning to rain down in front of them as well, but given the choice, Geralt would rather risk his chances at being crushed than die by suffocation in the muddy torrent they had left behind. He continued on, shielding Triss’s tiny head with his arm, wincing as a rock caught him on the side of the head. 

They were barely five feet from the exit when the roof fell down. It happened all at once, a great raining, cacophonous fury that made Geralt want to curl up and cover his ears. Triss screamed, and Geralt hunched over her protectively as stones caught him on the back. There was one final, shuddering heave. And then the world dissolved into an inky blackness more velvety than the deepest winter night.

\----

“Geralt? Please wake up! Please, I can’t move these rocks on my own, and I’m really scared. It’s so dark.”

Geralt frowned. Someone was gripping his shoulders and shaking him violently, and he did not appreciate it. It felt like his brain was rattling about inside his skull, painful and swollen. He reached up a clumsy arm, blinking against a disorienting darkness, even when he opened his eyes. For a terrifying moment, he thought perhaps he had been blinded, but then his pupils expanded rapidly and he was able to take in some vague, grey shapes. Mostly one, the face of a small girl, desperately shaking at him. He groaned.

“Fuck, leave off, I’m awake.”

The girl sat back with a horrified gasp.

“My ma would beat you within an inch of your life if she heard you using that word!”

Geralt felt very tired, but he allowed himself a small smile. The girl reminded him so much of Ciri, indignant even when trapped under several tonnes of stone in impenetrable blackness.

“Think…she’ll forgive me.”

Triss suddenly snuggled very close to Geralt, burying her head in his shoulder. He looked down at her vague shape, feeling more than a little out of his depth, and wrapped an arm around her small shoulders. As the events of the last few hours came flooding back, Geralt suddenly felt horribly guilty for leaving her alone while he had been unconscious. The girl had endured more in the past 24 hours than anyone her age should have to.

“I want my ma,” Triss sniffled, “It’s so dark, and my ma says the dark can’t hurt me, but I’m scared.”

Geralt brought a clumsy hand up and gently stroked her dirty, wet hair. He was feeling a little off balance; one of the stones had definitely caught him on the head.

“We’ll get out of here,” he assured her, though he had no idea how they might go about doing that quite yet, “I’m sure the people in your village saw the dust coming out of the entrance to the cave. They’ll be on their way to come find you. And in the meantime, we have to do everything we can to make sure they do. Can you help me do that?”

Triss sniffled and nodded miserably. Geralt removed his arm from around her shoulders and sat up slowly, letting his head adjust to the change in altitude. He ran his fingers along his scalp, and they came away sticky with blood. The way his ears were ringing and his head spun, he guessed a concussion. Not a serious one, though. He would be well within a day. 

Next, Geralt braced himself on a stone he could see outlined nearby, and began to stand. As soon as he got to his knees, though, there was a sharp pain in the back of his thigh. He staggered a bit, leaning forwards on the rock, breathing heavily.

“Geralt?” Triss ventured towards him and put a small hand on his shoulder as he panted, “Are you alright?”

Geralt could hear the fear in her voice, so he nodded, gritting his teeth.

“I’ve torn a muscle in my leg.”

Triss offered him a hand, but Geralt smiled gently even though he knew she could not see him, and pressed the hand back to her side.

“I’ll be fine. We need to shift through some of these stones, and get some light. If I start a fire, can you tend it?”

“Y-yes. But how are you going to start a fire here?”

Geralt ripped a piece of his already torn cloak, balled it up, and set it on the stone. Then, he wrapped his fingers into Igni, igniting the fabric instantly. Triss gasped, and in the flickering firelight, her face looked pale and awed.

“You…you’re a wizard! You can do magic!”

“All Witchers can. Now, can you watch that? I’ll leave my cloak, add some more fabric onto the fire if it starts to die. Use the rest to keep yourself warm.”

Geralt handed Triss his cloak and lifted her up so she was sitting next to the fire, away from the damp floor. He winced as he did so, hamstring twinging.

“You-you’re hurt. You can’t move all those rocks all by yourself!”

“No. But I can move as many as possible, to make it easier for your ma and pa to come find you, yes?”

Triss shut her mouth and nodded, wiggling a bit on top of the rock. Geralt gripped his leg, wincing as he limped forwards, and cursing a bit under his breath. The whole muscle quivered and burned, and threatened to give out every time he put his weight on it. He could feel sweat beading on his brow. But he had to get Triss out of here. His leg could surely wait.

Geralt continued on in a painful fashion for what must have been several hours, moving stones with one hand while using the other one to try to stabilize his leg. He was dizzy and hot, trying not to let it show as Triss became more and more concerned with his grunts of pain. Then, just when he thought he could go absolutely no further, the stone he had moved away broke the watery light of the fire with a brilliant blaze of sunlight. Geralt’s headache increased exponentially, and he had to focus to get his pupils to retract. Meanwhile, Triss let out a shout of joy and came running to stand next to him. He staggered, and tried to keep himself from falling on top of her.

“You did it!” Triss leapt into his arms, overjoyed, and Geralt’s back slammed uncomfortably into the stoney wall behind him as he lost his balance, “You got us out! Oh, thank you!”

She gave him a hard squeeze around the neck, and Geralt tried to conceal his sharp intake of breath by squeezing her back. Exhaustedly, he cleared away a few smaller stones to make a hole big enough for the two of them to crawl out of, testing the stability each time. Then, he boosted Triss through the hole and clambered out painfully after her, swaying and supporting himself on the stones again once he got out. Blinking a few times, Geralt could see the smoke from Triss’s village, barely a mile away. It seemed like an impossible walk. But he had promised Triss’s mother he would bring her back, alive. He couldn’t allow her to go off alone and die between the caves and the village. Not after all they had been through.

He pushed himself off the stones, with a grunt, steps so unsteady from his heavy limp that he could barely walk at all. Suddenly, Triss appeared at his side, holding a sturdy stick. 

“I thought…well, I thought it would help. With your leg.”

Her face coloured a bit under the dirt, but Geralt accepted the stick gratefully, leaning almost all his weight on it. His head was pounding, and he knew that after he returned Triss he would still need to find a place to camp and recover for a day or so. The little girl took his hand, and led him down the path back to the village. Geralt let his eyes go in and out of focus, staring at his feet, trusting her to lead him. He didn’t waken from his partial reverie until there was a sudden shriek, and Triss’s hand left his own, causing him to list sideways a bit before he righted himself. Looking up, he saw with considerable surprise that he was standing at the gates of the village, and that Triss was throwing herself into her mother’s arms, tears running down both their faces. He sighed and leaned a little heavier on his stick. Roach was waiting a few miles out of town, and he had been paid in advance for the job.. Best to get back to his horse before darkness fell. He turned to go.

“Wait!”

Geralt stopped so suddenly he nearly pitched headfirst into the ground. A hand reached out and steadied him, and he looked up into Triss’s mother’s tearful eyes. Her face was covered in her daughter’s dirty handprints.

“You look half dead, and you’re bleeding.”

Geralt blinked at her, wondering what to make of her observation. He was well aware that he was bleeding.

“Hmm.”

“You brought her home. The least we can do is give you some food and somewhere to rest.”

Geralt blinked again, confused. He was almost never offered lodgings after a contract. Too much blood.

“‘M horse…” He slurred tiredly.

“In the stable. Ivan, my husband, saw to her hours ago. Come on, your head needs seeing to.”

The woman grabbed Geralt’s arm forcefully, and all at once he knew exactly where and how Triss had gotten her stubborn streak. He allowed himself to be steered away, limping heavily, and led into a house, where he was all but deposited into a chair by a crackling hearth. Blinking tiredly, he saw Triss’s worried face; she was holding a cloth and washing blood away from his hairline.

“Geralt?” She whispered, “I…thank you. For taking me away from that horrible lady. And for not leaving me.”

Geralt nodded tiredly and let his head thump against the back of the chair. He saw stars, but was past the point of caring. He was so very tired. Someone, presumably Triss’s mother, put a hot stone wrapped in a towel on his leg, and he sighed in relief as a bit of the pain dissipated. Somewhere along the line, his head had been bandaged as well, and there was no longer any crusty blood sticking to the side of his face.

“Come on,” it was the woman’s voice again, her grip on his arm, “We’ve a bed in the back. When you wake we’ll get you something to eat.”

Too tired to argue, Geralt allowed his arm to be slung around her shoulder and he limped over to the bed, nearly asleep by the time he got there. He felt Triss’s little hand on his forehead, and someone pulling blankets over him. And then, he slept.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Feel free to leave a comment/kudos if you're feelin' it.


	5. Run

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt tries to free himself from a group of captors with a particularly cruel religious zeal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have taken some liberties with the worshippers of the Eternal Flame here, but bear with me, it's all for the plot. Enjoy!

Geralt’s hand slammed into the rough bark of the oak tree with enough force to rend the top layer of skin free. He swore and shook the hand angrily; often the most painful wounds were the ones that were only skin deep. He remembered Yennefer explaining it to him once; something about there being more nerves that were severed when you only lost one layer of skin. He didn’t remember details; he had been otherwise occupied at the time.

Now, though, Geralt would have given quite a lot to have Yennefer with him. Not to offer explanations about why his hand hurt so bastard much. But a damn portal to get him out of here wouldn’t have gone amiss. Neither would a sleeping draught. Geralt felt like he had been awake for weeks. Even though in truth it had only been four days, the constant wakefulness was beginning to wear on him more than he liked to admit. Witchers were not immune to exhaustion, and Geralt was reasonably convinced that the strange, metallic colours floating at the edge of his vision were not truly there. Whenever he turned his head to get a better glance at them, they disappeared. He shook his head, trying to focus, and held his breath for a second to focus on his breathing. There were footsteps, far off, of horses and men. The men were talking to each other, arguing.   
“He can’t have gotten far, damn bastard could hardly walk.”

“He’s not human, Erik! For all we know, he’s taken a portal to another sphere by now. They’re unnatural folk, Witchers. The lord did right capturing him before he did some real harm.”

“Enough of your flights of fancy, Thomas! We’ve been sent by the lord to find him. Do you want to stand in front of him and explain that the Witcher somehow managed to portal to another sphere? You’re likely to end up replacing him in the dungeons.”

Thomas, who had a higher voice and who Geralt determined to be quite a bit younger, cursed under his breath. Geralt had to hold in a soft snort. Portalling to another sphere, indeed. If only it were that simple. He leaned back on the tree, trying to catch his breath with lungs that were exhausted and quickly losing any remaining stamina brought on by adrenaline. Geralt felt utterly wrecked. But the men would still be able to track him here. He hadn’t spent any time trying to cover his trail, more focused on simply getting as far away from the icy cellar he had been kept in as humanly possible. It was likely he would not have made it as far as he had if he had stopped to cover his footsteps with leaves, or brush away boot prints in the mud. As it was, he wasn’t even sure he had the energy for it. 

The Witcher gathered his dwindling reserves, and pushed himself off the oak tree. His boots made a wet noise as they disengaged from the mud underneath it, and he pitched forwards, barely managing to get his feet underneath him before he fell into the mud. If he made it out of this, Yennefer would have his hide for allowing himself to get this exhausted. His brain felt like it was melting into pudding, and his eyes burned in the early morning light. There were some birds chirping in a nearby tree, and Geralt wished for a bow so he could extinguish their infernal singing from the world. All he wanted was some damn sleep. And to be left alone by these fucking men, and their fucking lord, who was labouring under the delusion that capturing and torturing Witchers was one of the many ways he could serve the Eternal Flame. Damnable zealots and their impossible urges to kill everything around them. This was not the first time Geralt had had a run in with the worshipers of the Eternal Flame, and his last experience had been only slightly less unpleasant. And that only because he had not ended up operating on four days without sleep, after escaping a freezing cellar. 

Stumbling forwards, staring at the ground, Geralt nearly smacked headfirst into another tree. He leaned tiredly against it, and appraised the water under his boots. It was muddy, the type of water that leaked out of boggy ground when you stepped on it. But perhaps a drink was all he needed to get back on his feet. He bent down and cupped his hands, squishing his heel into the mossy earth and watching the murky brown water pool around it. It looked even less clean when cupped between his pale hands, but he was past caring. The moment the thought of water had entered his mind, he suddenly found himself unbearably thirsty. 

However, as soon as Geralt brought the liquid to his lips and it touched his tongue, he gagged. It tasted of rot and decay. There was no doubt that something had recently died in this bog, and that its juices were leaking into and poisoning the water. He spat, disgusted, and swallowed convulsively a few times to keep from vomiting. In a detached sort of way, he wondered if his own body would fall here, and poison the waters with whatever strange mutagens were running through his veins. Perhaps the men hunting him would become thirsty eventually, and kill themselves drinking his poisonous fluids. The thought was unbearably amusing, and Geralt leaned back on his hands, chuckling obscenely to himself. There was water soaking through the knees of his pants, which made the situation even funnier, and he snorted and choked on his own mirth. Clearly, the process was already beginning. Geralt wished a painful death on his pursuers, trying to catch his breath against his laughter.

Suddenly, there was a much more audible whinny of a horse, and Geralt started back to reality with a sharp intake of breath that made his head spin. The sun was significantly higher in the sky than the last time he remembered looking; it beat down on his shoulders. His back was sore in a way that suggested he had been sitting in the same position for a long time. Groaning, he rolled his sore shoulders and pushed his hands into the loamy earth, struggling to get to his feet. The lord’s men had caught up to him. Clearly, he had lost time, but Geralt did not feel rested the way he would have if he had slept. No, he must have been in some sort of exhaustion-induced stupor. But now, he had to move, lest he be rediscovered by his captors. Perhaps he could get to a nearby village. Or find a cave to hole up in and sleep until the danger had passed. Even better, maybe Yennefer would somehow sense his distress, and come to his aid. Even though he was ashamed to admit it, Geralt missed her. He could do with a tender touch, at the moment. Not that Yennefer was good at being tender. But if he was tired and hurt enough, sometimes, she would read to him or stroke his hair. Usually he was too far out of his mind with fever and exhaustion to notice, but he did remember a few such occasions. The thought made him smile and gave him enough energy to take a few stumbling steps forwards. The ground sunk under his feet, and he nearly tripped, but he had to keep going, he could feel them getting ever closer behind him. Perhaps it was simply the exhaustion speaking, but Geralt could almost feel the disturbance in the air as the horses exhaled sharply, hooves pounding through the soggy turf. 

He took a few more running steps forwards, trying desperately not to trip over his own feet. Already, the afternoon was beginning to wear on, the sunlight that dappled the trees was beginning to glow with the bright orange of early evening. Geralt took in a sharp breath, trying to let the brightness of evening air rejuvenate him a bit. It did nothing. His eyelids were sagging, and he could still hear the men in the trees behind him, though they were a bit further away now. With a belated sort of surprise, Geralt realized he was running, in a tripping sort of way. He offered up a brief word of thanks to his body, for knowing what to do even when his brain was far too tired to tell it.

And so, he continued on, as the late afternoon bled into evening, which in turn bled into night. The men would not stay out in the dark. They could not, without a bit of the Eternal Flame to keep with them, and Geralt had not heard the telltale crackling of a torch as they had pursued him earlier on in the day. He just had to make it until the sun set. Then, he could stop. Stop and rest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feel free to leave a comment or kudos if you're feelin' it.


	6. Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Attacked and with nowhere else to turn, Geralt seeks Triss's help. Little does he know that she is encountering plenty of demons of her own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story uses a mix of show and book Triss, so it might be helpful to know a little bit about both in order for the backstory to completely make sense.

Triss grimaced, frustrated, as she tried once again to work her thoughts and feelings into one, concise letter. Sodden had made her confront her own mortality, yes. Made her realize that there were so many people who were important to her, who needed to know in case she should brush so closely with death again. But now, as she sat down to try to explain herself, the words simply would not come. And Triss had always been good with her writing, good with words. Her parents, many years ago in Ban Aard, had made sure of it. Before they had known that her destiny would guide her in a very different direction.

Finally, having had more than enough for one day, Triss flicked her fingers and the parchment, covered in crossed-out terms of endearment and hopeless beginnings to her impossible letter, exploded into flames. She tossed down the quill next to the smouldering ashes, wondering if she should consider burning that as well. It had done her no good. Perhaps she should enchant it, to write eloquently. But somehow, Triss knew that this was no problem of eloquence. It was an issue of courage.

Not particularly wanting to entertain such thoughts any longer, she left her desk and moved to the front room, lighting an oil lamp with a flick of her fingers along the way. She had not survived Sodden to label herself a coward. She had stared death in the face, and survived. And she could not compose her feelings into words on paper. It was infuriating. She was so very, very tired. Tired of all the thoughts whirling around in her head, of the fact that she felt confused even though she knew she was not. Triss knew exactly what she wanted. She just did not have the heart to say it. Even now, as she shivered and poured a little more energy into her glamour, which hid her scarred skin and burnt away hair that would never return. After all, who could take her like this? Living a lie, that she had not died and returned. And who would want a woman who occupied the spheres of the dead as much as she did those of the living?

Humiliatingly, Triss felt tears pricking at the corners of her eyes. Sodden had changed them all. People she had loved, she now felt like she barely knew. Perhaps Yennefer had the right idea, moving often, loving rarely. Triss had never felt so overwhelmed. She smacked her head into her hands, and waved a finger idly to conjure herself some dinner, though she had no appetite. When she looked up, the bread was burnt and smouldering, the fish cooked to ash. Resisting the urge to slam both her hands into the table, she turned away. Even her magic was confused now, unsure of her or who she was, conjuring things just as burnt and broken as who she was now, underneath the glamour. Perhaps her chaos was trying to send Triss a message. One to which she did not care to listen. 

Exhausted from her efforts keeping her glamour up and not in the mood to attempt conjuring herself something to eat again, Triss pushed herself up from the table, using her hands for support. Perhaps she could get some sleep, just for a few hours. Her sleep had been sporadic since Sodden, which had been nigh on eight months ago. Any normal human would have begun hallucinating and died long ago. Triss wasn’t even sure if that sounded so bad, at this point. If nothing else, it would save her from the damnable indecision about her letter. And about the man to whom she intended to send it.

Wandering lethargically over to her bed, Triss didn’t even bother to shed her dress. Chances were she would be awake again in thirty minutes. No point in changing into something more comfortable. It wouldn’t help her sleep, either. She curled up on the bed, not bothering to get under the blankets. The lantern flickered and guttered in the corner, and Triss quickly cast a spell to refill the bulb with oil. At least her spellwork that involved fire still seemed to work. Perhaps destiny was sending her another message.

She was painfully close to drifting off into an uneasy rest when something started Triss awake. At first, she wasn’t sure what it was that had roused her. There were no sounds on the air, no echoes. The lantern was still burning. And then, she felt a ripple in the air, in the very fabric of the universe. Like someone had opened up a rift in time, and was now hurriedly stitching it back shut before anyone noticed. Triss leapt to her feet and shook away the sleep and dizziness from her head. Portals were a rarity here, so far out of the way. There was no reason for someone to portal to the middle of a forest at this hour of the morning. Whoever they were, they had found her. And that meant she would most likely have to run, or fight. There was a pounding of footsteps at the doorway of the small cottage, and a loud bang as someone, or something, pounded at the door once, heavily. Triss prepared a small sphere of fire in her hand, more to intimidate than anything. It would take a far larger amount of power to do real harm to anyone strong enough to conjure a portal. Steeling herself, the enchantress threw the door open. 

She nearly fell over from shock. Barely recovering in time, she lunged forwards to try to stop the catastrophic fall of the person who had been leaning drunkenly against her door.

“Goddess, Geralt! Are you trying to kill me?” In the heat of the moment, all Triss’s prior confusion regarding the Witcher had temporarily vanished. He blinked heavily in her arms, eyes glowing like a cat’s in the dull light of the lantern. It was pitch black outside. Whoever had conjured the portal, they had not accompanied the Witcher here. Triss breathed a sigh of relief. She wasn’t sure she would have been able to fight off another mage tonight. Months of sleeplessness and feeding power to her glamour had weakened her considerably. Already, her arms felt weak, just holding Geralt in her lap. This thought jerked her back to the present rather rudely. Why hadn’t Geralt picked himself up?

Taking a closer look at the Witcher, Triss felt her heart drop. He was sweaty and pale, and both his hands were clenched around his left shoulder. Upon closer inspection, Triss realized there was a broken-off crossbow bolt protruding from the soft part of his upper arm. She nearly cursed again, but restrained herself. Geralt looked very apologetic.

“’S poisoned…didn’ know where else to go.”

Triss tried not to allow herself to feel too much false hope at this statement. Yennefer likely would have slapped him upside the head for allowing himself to get into this situation in the first place, and Geralt was not on speaking terms with a good many other mages. She smiled, hoping it didn’t look too false. Really, destiny was a cruel bitch. Sending him here just as she had tried to find the words to say what she needed to say to him. 

“It’s alright,” she said, trying to keep the exhaustion from her voice, “Get up, and I’ll see what I can do.”

Geralt put a heavy hand on Triss’s shoulder and managed to haul himself to his feet, but it seemed he could get no further. He swayed dizzily and sat there, staring off into the middle distance. Triss sighed, and ducked under his good arm, dragging him to her bed. It was a good thing, she thought, that she made so little use of it. Less of her scent on the sheets. Not that Geralt would be able to identify her scent. After all, they barely knew each other.

As soon as she touched his head, once he was lying down, Triss felt a fever burning miserably under his skin. He twisted uncomfortably, and she pulled the sheets over him. Whatever lucidity had been present when he had showed up at her door, it was fading far faster than the enchantress would have liked.

“Geralt! Geralt, you need to look at me.” She slapped his cheek sharply, and he started pitifully. Triss purposefully ignored the butterflies in her stomach as his eyes managed to fix dazedly on hers. She was not a lovestruck schoolgirl anymore. Despite all her body’s attempts to convert her back into one.

“Hmmm?”

“You need to tell me who did this to you. And what poison they used, if you can. At least give me symptoms.”

“Mmm…I dunno…was ’n assassin. Dark hair…’m cold ’n dizzy. Hurts. Might be…hallucinating…a bit.”

His eyes rolled back in his head with this statement, and Triss resisted the urge to roll her eyes. Concise to a point, that was Geralt. And, unfortunately, entirely unhelpful. She would have to give him a general remedy taken orally and applied directly to the wound, and hope that the assassin’s budget hadn’t been high enough for him to purchase a poison for which she did not have the antidote. Leaving him twisting weakly on the bed, she hurried to her study in the back of the cottage, and snatched up the strongest general poison antidote she could fine. Yennefer would bisect her if she allowed Geralt to die. For all her exposition on the uselessness of attachment, Yennefer was terribly fond of the Witcher, when it suited her. Triss did not want to be on the receiving end of her wrath. And that was the sole reason for her intense desire to save the Witcher. Nothing else. She shook her head. It felt fuzzy. Probably from lack of sleep. 

Suddenly, there was a crash from the front room. Triss jumped, and nearly dropped the vial she was holding, casting a quick spell to stop its downward trajectory towards the cobbles, and swooping it up before her concentration broke. She hurried back to Geralt, who had woken up again. When she approached him and investigated more closely, though, it was clear that his conscious mind was far away. His eyes were hazy and clouded over, face reddened and covered with tiny indents from pushing too hard against the pillows. He was struggling against something, movements pulling on his wounded arm. With a deep ache in her chest, Triss flicked her fingers, and his legs and arms snapped down onto the bed, restrained by invisible bonds. It was not the original intention for which she had learned that particular spell, but it was turning out to be surprisingly helpful now.

“Geralt, it’s just me. I need to get that bolt out of your arm before it does any more damage. Is that alright?”

In the flickering lamplight, Triss wasn’t sure if she was seeing sweat or tears flowing down Geralt’s face. She made a solemn vow to herself to never speak of this to anyone afterwards. Geralt looked far too miserable, his face screwed up in intense agony, eyes squeezed shut so tightly Triss was surprised they weren’t paining him. Though, she supposed he would have had no way to rub at them if they were. She reached down and took his hand, which he clutched at fiercely.

“Gods…Vesemir…get it out. Please, please, it hurts. No more, please.”

There they were again. The tears that Triss had tried so valiantly to fight off earlier in the evening, were now pouring down her face. Leave it to Geralt to inspire such a reaction in her.

“I’ll get it out,” she whispered, not having the heart to extricate her fingers from Geralt’s vicelike grip, even though it was causing her a good deal of pain, “But you need to let go of my hand.”

His fingers loosened slowly, like he had to keep bringing his focus back to do it, and his eyes were wandering the room, tracking things that were not there. Carefully, Triss tipped half the vial of antidote down his throat, hoping to get it working as soon as possible. Whatever this poison was, it was making Geralt deteriorate far faster than she would have liked. His hands clenched and twisted weakly in their invisible bonds, and he looked very uncomfortable. Triss resolved to run him a bath later, when he was well again. Her sheets were already soaked with his sweat; she couldn’t imagine how awful he must be feeling.

Finally, Triss closed her eyes and worked her hands carefully into a pain relieving spell. She had not wanted to try earlier; her chaos was too erratic and unpredictable to be safe to use on others at the moment. But she knew she would be unable to get this bolt out without giving Geralt something to dull the pain with. Thankfully, nothing lit on fire, and the Witcher relaxed into the bed, a dazed look glimmering in his eyes.

“Mmm…’s warm. Doesn’t hurt anymore. That’s…nice.”

“Good.”

Triss closed her hand around the bolt, and with one fluid gesture, she yanked it out of Geralt’s arm. The man watched with a dazed, disinterested look in his eyes as blood, blackened by whatever foul poison had coated the bolt, welled in the wound.

“’S a lot of blood.”

“Yes. Your blood, I might add. So no getting up for a while. You’ve got an impressive fever, and even though you can’t feel it right now, the pain will be back soon. I can’t go on numbing it for much longer.”

Already, Geralt was clenching his eyes shut again, and his hands were twitching like he wanted to reach up and grab his shoulder again.

“Ahhh…fuck, it hurts again.”

“I’m sorry. My magic isn’t strong enough to do much more at the moment.”

In the time it had taken for Triss to apologize, the pain had rendered Geralt mostly insensible again. His head was rolling against the pillow as she poured the rest of the antidote onto his wound and wrapped it with bandages. He muttered to himself, occasionally begging her to stop, telling her that it hurt, and that he was tired. She tried her best to keep from crying, but an occasional tear leaked out. She tried to block the pain again, but she was too weak, and his nerves were on fire, each one screaming in agony. There was nothing she could do but sit and wash his forehead, waiting for the pain and fever to subside enough that he could fall asleep.

Eventually, in the wee hours of the morning, Geralt’s fever broke. He woke just as it peaked, and was thus awake when he was eventually aware enough to communicate with Triss again. He sighed tiredly as she wiped some residual sweat away from his forehead.

“How’s your pain?” She asked, trying to distance herself, keep herself as far away from caring as she possibly could. Geralt was bad enough at reading people that it might actually work.

“Manageable.”

From his gritted teeth, Triss gathered that it was intense, but decided not to push him anymore. She released his hands from the magical bonds, and even though they would not have chafed his skin, he rubbed at his wrists sleepily, half drifting off in the flickering dawn light.

“Should I bring you anything?”

“Mmm…some water?”

His voice sounded dry and parched, so Triss obligingly poured Geralt a cup and helped him hold it to his mouth, even though he shot her a little glare. There was no real heat behind it, though, and he sipped at the mug until all the water was gone. Triss set it back down and settled back in the chair, trying to ignore how hot Geralt’s intense gaze made her feel, even when he was exhausted and still a bit feverish.

“Triss?”

She jumped, having half dozed off. The letter was on her mind again.

“Yes?”

“Thank you. Yennefer…well, Yennefer would never have been an option to go to like this. She would have gutted me, torn me limb from limb. You were my only choice.”

“You’re welcome.”

Her words were stiff. Her throat felt closed off. Even so wounded and ill, Geralt had considered going to Yennefer and enduring her wrath instead of coming to Triss instead. She made up her mind, then and there. Her letters would never see the light of day. Nor would word of her feelings, so long as she had the capacity to control her tongue. She sat, petrified, angry, until Geralt drifted back into a fitful sleep next to her, blissfully unaware of her turmoil.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! And can I just say all your sweet comments and kudos on this story have absolutely made my whole week, and definitely helped me keep on writing as I get into finishing up the last three or four days of this story that I still don't have quite written. So thank you so much!


	7. Chord

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A villager lies. Geralt pays the price. Jaskier plays his lute. 
> 
> CW: Just canon typical blood ‘n guts.

Swords were not meant to be used as walking sticks. They were works of art, meant to carry out a specific, deadly purpose. And they should not be degraded to being used as a simple prop to get oneself out of an idiotically self-made situation. Especially in the middle of the muddy, disgusting swamp that Geralt found himself in at the moment. His silver sword would not rust; it was enchanted to protect from such menial ailments. But Vesemir had always drilled it into the young Witchers that you must respect your weapons if you wanted them to keep you alive. And slogging through a smelly, squelching bog using a sword as a crutch did not fall under Geralt’s definition of respect. He winced, more at the thought of what Vesemir would say if he could see Geralt now than in actual pain. He was an idiot. Going into a fight with a single kikimore, expecting a farmer’s approximations of size and strength to be accurate. The man had barely looked intelligent enough to lace his own boots. And the kikimore had been more than twice the size that he had described. Geralt had paid dearly for his mistake, though. He reflected that he should probably be grateful to still have all his limbs.

In reality, Geralt wasn’t sure exactly how he had managed to come out of the whole encounter as unscathed as he was. Besides being wet and muddy and generally irritable, he had a single wound, a slash on his upper left thigh. The kikimore’s wickedly sharp, clawed leg had caught him unawares, while he was still trying to adjust his expectations based on how much larger the thing had been than he was expecting. It was oozing blood at an alarmingly rapid pace; kikimore claws were large and a wound from one was not to be taken lightly. Geralt had felt the razor sharp pain of the claw connecting with bone, and he knew that he had severed an artery. At first, this had alarmed him, but upon closer inspection it seemed only the internal iliac artery had taken damage; the larger femoral artery had remained intact. Geralt could survive bleeding from the smaller iliac, but to sever the femoral artery meant death within twenty minutes, if not ten. Still, there was blood coursing down his leg in time with his pulse, which was beating far too loudly in his ears. He could feel himself weakening from blood loss. And his left leg would bear no weight, hence the need to degrade his sword in such an appalling manner. Geralt stopped, panting, leaning against a tree. It had taken him about twenty minutes to slog his way through the marsh from where he and Jaskier were camped. By his calculations, his time to travel back would be nearly doubled by his injury. He sighed. It was going to be a long night.

He continued on, limping heavily, trying to keep his panting and stifled groans of pain to a minimum. There could be any number of other creatures lurking out in this bog, sniffing the air for blood. And Geralt’s head was beginning to feel fuzzy, as though his ears had been stuffed full of cotton. He could barely focus on putting one foot in front of the other, much less trying to keep an ear pricked for danger. Dizzily, he suddenly registered that there were footsteps coming towards him, splashing far too loudly in the sopping, loamy ground. Grunting, Geralt drew his dagger and raised his head with considerable effort, bracing himself for whatever was coming. He knew he could not win a fight, not right now. Perhaps his luck would hold, and he would at least be able to wound the thing badly enough to get away before it killed him.

He looked up, right into Jaskier’s worried blue eyes. Promptly, Geralt slumped, head smacking back against a conveniently placed tree. Jaskier lunged forwards and managed to catch him on the arm before he could list sideways.

“Goddess, Geralt, what happened out there? You said one kikimore. This looks like a whole nest, with some drowners added on to boot.”

Geralt didn’t really understand the loud, worried noises coming from Jaskier’s mouth. They all ran together a bit drunkenly. Damn. Perhaps he had lost more blood than he thought. He tried to clear his vision, but no matter how many times he blinked it was still dark, and he was still too dizzy to see much of anything. Except Jaskier’s worried face, which hovered in his line of vision, strangely fuzzy around the edges.

“Was a kikimore,” he responded, trying not to sound as irritated as he felt, “Just…big. Fuck, Jaskier, I can’t walk.”

Geralt was rather pleased with how coherent that had sounded. Perhaps he could fool the bard into thinking the slice in his thigh wasn’t as bad as it was. He wanted to lick his wounds in peace. Unfortunately, he didn’t think he would be able to get to a suitable location for seeing to his wounds without Jaskier’s help. If the bard hadn’t showed up, he probably would have ended up passing out in the bog somewhere, and hoped that the blood loss didn’t kill him before he woke up.

“I can see that,” Jaskier was saying dryly, peering at the gash on Geralt’s side, which was gaping like some sort of horrendous, leering mouth, “Come on, let’s get you up and back to the camp. That’s bleeding something horrible.”

“Hmm,” Geralt put a hand out to steady himself as the whole world suddenly pitched violently, like he was on a rocking ship, “Needs stitches. ’N I need….some help. With the walking.”

Fuck. That had not sounded coherent. Jaskier would definitely be onto him after that little display. Geralt tried not to swear out loud.

“I know. Come on, lean on my shoulder. That’s it, slowly does it. I’ve got you, Geralt. I’m not going to let you fall.”

Geralt looked up then, and saw that Jaskier’s eyes were deadly serious, and staring right back at him. He smiled sloppily, tried to disguise it as a twitch of his lips, and then gave up. Jaskier knew he was in a bad way. Might as well be forthcoming about it now. It would probably save him from the bard’s rage once he was feeling a bit better.

“I know, bard.”

Jaskier hauled Geralt to his feet with surprisingly little effort, and gently slipped the silver sword out of his hand, sliding the thing into his belt. Geralt sighed. Jaskier would probably clean it for him. It was good to know that his sword was in safe hands, at least. He managed to limp along, his left leg all but useless. A long time ago, at a midsummer’s celebration Jaskier had forced him to attend, Geralt had watched children participate in some kind of race, where they were put into pairs and then tied their inside legs together. That was how he felt now, stumbling along clumsily beside the bard. His head was drooping, eyes falling shut despite his best efforts. He barely noticed when Jaskier lowered him gently onto the ground. 

“There, that wasn’t so hard, was it?”

The bard slipped something under Geralt’s head, and he recognized it as being the rolled up blanket he sometimes used as a pillow when he came back from a hunt with a sore neck. He must be lying on his bedroll, then. It was soft, and there were blankets under his fingers, he could feel them. Geralt was so cold. He must have lost a lot of blood. Hadn’t he already established that? He couldn't quite recall, and he shivered and turned his face towards the gentle heat of the newly built fire. Hmm. That hadn’t been there a moment ago. It seemed he was losing time as well.

“Geralt? Are you awake? I’m going to start stitching this now, alright?”

Geralt blinked. Jaskier seemed to have materialized out of nowhere, wielding a needle and thread and a bottle of what looked like Redanian spirit.

“Mmm…potions first.”

“Right! Yes, sorry. Keep forgetting those are, you know, something you can use. What with me being a human and all…”

Jaskier stood, and returned a moment later with the leather satchel in which Geralt stored all his potions. 

“Can I have a description? You know, since none of these appear to be labelled.”

“Black, consistency like tar. Smells like ozone if you open the bottle.”

Geralt was panting from all the talking, and he watched Jaskier poke around in his bag with an intense scowl on his face. Finally, he pulled one that Geralt recognized instantly as the correct potion. His suspicions were confirmed when Jaskier took a whiff and went a bit cross-eyed.

“Ozone indeed,” the bard shook his head, looking a little disoriented, “Are you sure this will help, Geralt?”

Geralt tried to nod with as small a motion as possible; his head was swimming enough as it was, and beckoned for Jaskier to hand over the vial. Once it was in his hand, he dumped half on the wound, groaning as it hissed and fizzed, and knocked back the other half of the vile concoction in one fell swoop. It buzzed inside of him, and left the small hairs on his arms standing on end. Geralt shuddered. Jaskier was watching him, clearly aghast.

“Well…that never gets old.” The bard gave a nervous chuckle, and began threading the needle. Geralt offered him a tired smirk in return, feeling very drained. Healing potions always made him so very tired. The body was not meant to do in mere moments the healing that would have normally taken at least a few hours.

Jaskier completed the first suture without warning Geralt first; clearly the bard had learned it was best to just dive in and worry about the pain later. The Witcher grunted and tensed his muscles tightly as Jaskier knotted it off, and proceeded to the second one.

“Alright?”

“Cold.” The answer came through gritted teeth.

“That’s it? I’m sewing your skin together, and your biggest complaint is that you’re cold? Gods, Geralt, sometimes I wonder if you’ve any nerve endings at all.”

“More…than I’d like. At the moment.”

“Fair enough.”

Nearly twenty small, neat sutures later, Jaskier completed the final knot and sat back on his heels to survey his work, nodding to himself.

“You need to stay off it, and I mean it, Geralt. No limping about to go get firewood or tend to Roach. This is a huge cut, and these stitches will only hold if you stay still.”

“Hmm.”

“Now, do you need me to bring you anything, or can I bandage this and get us something to eat?”

“‘M fine.”

Jaskier shrugged and picked up a long roll of bandaging from the ground next to him, taking care to cut off the outer layer that had been exposed to dirt on the road. He had learned early on that dirty bandages only led to infections. Gently, he got Geralt to bend his leg at the knee, propping the joint against his shoulder, and wrapped the bandage around the careful sutures, tying it off. Geralt wondered when Jaskier had gotten so good at that. Normally, the tying off of a bandage over so many sutures would cause a lot of pain, but the bard did it seamlessly and with excessive gentleness. Even the way he lowered Geralt’s leg back to the ground, propping it up with a blanket under the knee, spoke to his desire that the Witcher be as comfortable as possible. Geralt found himself oddly touched by the action. 

“Try to get some rest, alright? I’ll make some tea and heat some bread.”

“You eat. ‘M not hungry.”

“Suit yourself. But you need to drink if you want to recover from all the blood that’s made itself a new home on the outside of your trousers. Unless you want to be laid up here for longer.”

Geralt shot Jaskier a glare, but it was more out of habit than because of any real anger he possessed. The bard had done a sight more than most people would upon encountering a wounded Witcher in the woods. Although, now that Geralt thought of it, Jaskier almost always did a sight more than most people. Especially where Geralt himself was concerned.

“Geralt? Are you alright?”

Geralt started and realized he had been staring quite intensely at Jaskier, who was sitting back on his heels with a concerned look on his face. 

“Mmm, yeah. Fine.”

The bard shot him a quizzical look and turned back to the fire. Geralt rubbed at his leg absentmindedly. It burned and throbbed, and he was very tired. Surely, Jaskier would wake him when the water boiled for tea. There was no point in trying to keep himself up when the bard was here. The fire crackled merrily, and Geralt’s pain managed to distance itself to a mere, thudding distraction. He sighed and closed his eyes.

\----

Someone was shaking his shoulder, very gently. Almost as though they were afraid to wake him at all. Geralt wondered who would bother themselves so much over him. And then he heard Jaskier’s voice. Musical, soft enough that it didn’t grate at Geralt’s ears. He blinked his eyes open, and there was the bard’s concerned face, one hand gently shaking his shoulder and the other clutching a steaming mug.

“Ah, Geralt. Thank goodness. I was beginning to worry you weren’t going to wake up at all.”

Geralt shook his head and tried to ignore the way the world tipped drunkenly around him. His memory conjured up a vague recollection of bleeding heavily. 

“I’m up.” The words felt oddly swollen in his mouth, like he had swallowed a nest full of bees. He winced, and so did Jaskier.

“Ah. Maybe keep off talking at the moment, at least until you’ve had something to drink. That potion sizzled when it hit your leg. I hate to think what it did to your throat.”

With this, Jaskier offered up the steaming mug of what Geralt now recognized as peppermint tea. He had to hide a small smile. There were very few scents that Geralt liked or actively sought out, but peppermint was definitely one of them. It cleared his sinuses. Made him feel more alert. Clearly, this had not gone unnoticed by the bard. Geralt propped himself up on an elbow, trying to ignore the way it wobbled a bit under his weight, and took the mug in his other hand. Jaskier kept a hold on it until Geralt had brought it to his lips, and the Witcher couldn’t find it in himself to argue. His hands were shaking too much for an argument to be viable anyways.

After he had finished the whole mug, Jaskier took it back and sat down, cross legged, in the dirt. A small fire was still crackling merrily in the background, and Geralt could tell from the vague scent of warm bread on the air that the bard had eaten.

“Feeling better?”

“Less of a dry throat. How long was I asleep?”

“A few hours. No, let me look at that, you should be resting. Gods, Geralt, your leg is barely holding together. If you move around too much the whole thing will burst open again. Like a sausage coming out of its casing.”

Jaskier looked mildly queasy at his own imagery, but Geralt snorted and laid back down, leaving the bard to fuss with his bandages.

“Wouldn’t be the first time. I’m used to doing this alone, you know. I don’t need…all this.”

Geralt waved his hand haphazardly in the air, not really sure what he was addressing, only that it was too much. That it was unnecessary. Jaskier looked up and gave him a soft scowl.

“Just because you don’t need it doesn’t mean you aren’t allowed to have it, should it present itself to you. And you can’t say that having me here doesn’t take a bit of the burden off your shoulders.”

“It does make things…less overwhelming.”

Jaskier beamed like this was the highest praise he had ever received, and poked at Geralt’s leg a little bit. The Witcher grimaced and clenched up his muscles, at which point Jaskier backed off.

“Sorry. Just needed to make sure you weren’t still bleeding out.”

“I’d know if I was.” Geralt was beginning to feel very drowsy again. He blinked heavily.

“You wouldn’t notice if your own limbs were falling off until they started snagging on the bushes.”

Geralt snorted and shrugged, trying to quell the rather vivd imagery the description brought to his brain. He was already feeling queasy enough.

“You should sleep, you know. You’ve lost a lot of blood, and I can tell you’re tired, even though you won’t say as much. Should I just give you some poppy’s milk and get it over with?”

“Poppy’s milk…makes me tired.”

“And you’re not already?” Geralt had to blink to get Jaskier’s face back into focus, and when he did it was the picture of incredulity.

“Tired…’n dizzy. Can’t focus.”

Jaskier didn’t dignify that with a response, and Geralt could hear him undoing the metal latches on his lute case, and plucking a few gentle chords.

“If you’re not going to go to sleep on your own, I’ll just have to bore you until you have no other choice. Besides, it’ll give me a chance to play some new compositions on…well, a more willing audience than I normally get with you.”

“’S…coercion.” Geralt was too tired to really remember what that word meant, or if it was appropriate in this context, but it made him sound more lucid, so he left it.

“I’m sure it is. The sooner you fall asleep, the sooner you won’t have to listen to my wailing anymore. Besides, you’ve nothing to do but lie there and sleep until your leg doesn’t look like it’s about to burst at the seams anymore. Might as well get used to it. I expect I’ll get some decent composing done as well.”

Geralt resisted the urge to groan, not wanting to wallow too much in his own self-pity. He would die before admitting it, but some of Jaskier’s playing didn’t sound half bad, even on his sensitive ears. Composition, though, was an entirely different matter. Discordant noises and cursing were not conducive to rest, especially with the pitch-sensitive hearing of a Witcher. Geralt often felt like his whole head was ringing when Jaskier’s lute was out of tune or he tried a chord progression that didn’t quite sound right. It made him rather miserable.

“Do you need anything else before I get started? Something for the pain? Or do you just need to sleep?”

Jaskier had brushed an irksome bit of hair away from Geralt’s face, and he sighed gratefully. He had been trying to blow the offending hair away from his nose for the last five minutes; his hands were no longer cooperating enough to brush it away.

“‘M alright. Don’t be too loud.”

“Oh, Geralt. You’re ridiculous.”

Geralt blinked tiredly, wondering what Jaskier meant. It was frustrating, the way he would make such enigmatic statements and then not clarify his meaning. It made Geralt’s head spin. And it was already spinning enough, what with the blood loss and dizziness and the thudding pain in his leg that measured alongside his heartbeat.

“Go to sleep.” Jaskier’s voice was soft, so quiet it was barely there at all, And Geralt allowed himself to roll his shoulders and get as comfortable as he could. A few moments later, a few chords rang out, clear and crystalline in the silence of the night. It was not a new composition, though, but an old ballad, one Geralt had heard in taverns long before Jaskier was even alive. It was quiet, a simple melody, not difficult to follow. The bard hummed along, occasionally singing a few words that he appeared to be making up as he went along; Geralt knew the original ballad was purely instrumental. A few times, he stopped and ran a hand over the Witcher’s forehead, probably checking for fever. Geralt was more asleep than awake by that point, and greatly enjoying listening to the quiet night air and the simple chords. Perhaps he would tell the bard that, when he woke, if he felt a bit more refreshed. Jaskier deserved to know that most of Geralt’s grumbling about his music was just put on. After all the bard had done for him, surely that wouldn’t be too great a sacrifice for Geralt to make.

He would consider it when he woke. For now, he was tired, and his leg was sore, and the night was quiet except for Jaskier’s gentle humming and the soft pluck of chords.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so very much for reading!!


	8. Drown

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt mistakes something for what it is not, and gets his facial scars along the way. Yen makes sure Ciri takes care of herself, too.

There was water. Up his nose, clogging his ears and making his eyes sting and ache like they did when he accidentally didn’t wring his hair out well enough and the bathwater got in his eyes. Geralt detested the water. After his Trials, they had poured water all over him, presumably to wash away the blood. But it had been seawater, full of salt. It had cleaned his wounds well enough, prevented infection. But he could still feel the burning. Feel the way it had choked him and clogged his overwrought senses, made him feel as though he were drowning in a sea from which there was no escape, a sea to which he had subjected himself by stubbornly refusing to die. It was the one time in his long life when Geralt, to his eternal shame, had truly wished for death. As always, though, she had evaded him.

Now, Geralt did not wish for death. He was too hot and confused and tired to really even have the wherewithal to make such a request of destiny. No, he wanted the water gone. He must have fallen asleep and become fevered somewhere near a bog or lake. And now he was alone, drowning, and unable to do anything to stop it. He pushed his hands weakly against whatever surface he was lying on, and was surprised to find that it had give. A marsh, then. With springy, soft soil. It wouldn’t be the first time Geralt had contracted a fever from wandering with untreated wounds in such a place.

He tried to triage himself, but his focus kept slipping. There was no one place where he felt a particularly strong pain. He couldn’t move his hands to see if there was any blood; they felt glued to his sides. The water was still there, and Geralt was convinced that it was there just to torture him; he could just barely breathe through his nose, but each breath made him stutter and snort and choke. It was utterly miserable. However, Geralt couldn’t make out any particular areas of concern, so he tried to relax. Normally, if there was a particularly dangerous wound, his body would let him know. Since there were no such alarm bells going off, he could probably relax and let his body knit itself back together. If only this damn water would leave him in peace.

He tried to let himself fall into an uneasy rest, but every time he tried to breathe he spluttered and coughed and woke up all over again. He couldn’t turn over to get more comfortable, and when he tried moving his fingers to see if there was water at his sides, they tingled strangely. Geralt all but gave up on getting any rest. He would have to wait this out, until he was well enough to pull himself out of whatever accursed body of water he had fallen into. It worried him, in a vague sort of way, that he had no recollection of how he had become injured in the first place. No monsters, no assassins wielding swords, no mages with ill intent. Nothing. Just an all-encompassing black. Geralt couldn’t even organize his thoughts enough to puzzle out what his most recent memory was. They all fell into a sort of blurry haze. He chalked it up to the fever he could feel ripping like a wildfire through his flesh. He felt swollen, like he was about to split apart, and it was still impossible to breathe. 

After a few more moments of spluttering and trying to breathe as delicately as possible, something very strange happened. Geralt felt a weight being lifted from his face, and suddenly the water that had been so affecting him disappeared. The air felt far too cold and far too fresh after being mostly submerged for what felt like hours. He winced, and suddenly there were hands touching his face, gently. They were warm, and he leaned into the touch before he realized that this was all wrong. He was supposed to be alone. Who would have left him drowning for such a long time, only to rescue him now? Had someone come upon him in the woods? Geralt wrenched his eyes open, determined to defend himself before this newcomer could stick a dagger in his back.

Everywhere was dark. It must be night. Over top of him, a very concerned face hovered, clearly the owner of the small hand that was still cupping his cheek ever so gently. Even though Geralt couldn’t see well enough to make out the exact features, he would have recognized her face anywhere. Ciri.

He thought he caught the last vestiges of a sweet smile on her face. She was older than the last time he had seen her, he thought. That was…odd. His memories were scrambled and strange, and trying to find specific ones was like wading into a lake and trying to catch a fish with his bare hands. A feat he would have been capable of, normally. But fevered and delirious, he didn’t know where to begin.

“Ciri…” His breath was hot as the words passed his lips. His face gave an uncomfortable twinge, and it felt very difficult to move. Perhaps that was where his injury lay. Now that he thought about it, Geralt could feel a hot line, travelling down over his left eye. He wondered how it had happened.

“Geralt,” she answered, though her hand was pulling away, “Try to get some sleep, alright?”

Then, her face was disappearing, and Geralt couldn’t bear it. Couldn’t bear to lose her again. They could be anywhere, he was powerless to protect her. And, as difficult as it was for him to admit, her hand had been so warm and gentle after feeling like he was drowning for what had surely been hours. She couldn’t go. There could be all sorts of evils out there, waiting to catch her unguarded. But he felt weak and wobbly just lying still, like someone had taken his bones and mashed them to pulp. He hated being fevered. 

“Ciri…don’t go.”

His eyes were falling shut again, so he didn’t see her face re-enter his field of vision, but he did feel her hand land on his shoulder, ever so softly.

“I’m not going, Geralt. You’ve made a right mess of your face. It’ll be a while before either of us are going anywhere. But I need to go get you some water, and wake Yen. She said she’d sit with you while I got some sleep.”

Geralt didn’t really understand her words. Only that after she finished talking, her hand disappeared again, and he was horribly, utterly alone, floating on a tide of black dreams that choked and swelled in his throat, making him feel like he was drowning all over again. He coughed back a sob. It was hot, and he couldn’t breathe again, and Ciri must have been a hallucination, because she had left him.

\----

“Yen! I think he might be awake.”

Ciri turned when Yen stepped quietly into the room behind her, but quickly spun back around when Geralt shifted, his face scrunched up as much as he was able, an absolute picture of misery. Her heart twisted. Whatever had attacked him, they had matching scars now, and Ciri remembered from her own experiences that recovering from such a wound was all sorts of miserable. She looked regretfully at him, trying to remind herself that she would be no good to him half dead. She had not slept since they had arrived at Yennefer’s home, after nearly a day and a half of continuous travel. She was utterly wrecked.

“Go get some sleep, Ciri. I can watch him for a while.”

Yen’s eyes glittered in the firelight, and while her wording made it sound like a suggestion, Ciri knew Yen was more than prepared to portal her to a bed should she decline.

“Can I sleep on the couch, here? He seemed very confused. I’d like to be here, in case, you know, he thinks he’s lost me again. I couldn’t bear that. He blames himself, you know. For losing me. I don’t want that to happen now.”

Yennefer cast appraised Geralt, sweaty and pale, half his face covered with bandages, and then she turned to Ciri and nodded.

“I’d rather not take any chances. Without magical intervention he wouldn’t have survived the night. Whatever got him, it made a damn mess of him.”

Ciri giggled a little, almost hysterically.

“I just said the same, to him. I wonder what did it. He must have quite nearly met his match. That’s something I struggle to imagine.”

Yennefer sighed.

“You didn’t see him after Thanedd. I thought he was dead that day, just like I did when you brought him to me yesterday. At least this time I could do something for him, instead of merely seeing him off as he portalled off to Brokilon with Triss pining after him. It’s a surprise they ever got her out of the forest without him by her side.”

Ciri curled up on the sofa, and pulled an elegant silk blanket over herself. The fire was burning low in the hearth, and it cast odd shadows on the walls, whirling like dancers, feverishly spinning circles around the room. She was about to close her eyes when Geralt shifted again, mere whispers escaping his lips. Yennefer was with him, she knew, but she couldn’t help but listen. Only to be by his side, should he need her. They had spent too many years needing each other from hundred of miles away. Now that she was with him, Ciri could not bear to no be there for Geralt when he was so obviously in need of someone.

“Aah…fuck. Please…don’t go.” Geralt’s voice was tremulous and tired, and Ciri winced at it. He sounded parched, and she realized she had forgotten to get him water. Yen would get it for him, surely.

“I’m here, Geralt. You’re not alone.”

Geralt seemed not to understand her, because he kept twisting and murmuring similar things, about being alone and not wanting to be left. It broke Ciri’s heart. She supposed that, in many ways, he must fear deeply being left. After everyone who had left him. It was no surprise that his fever dreams revolved around being abandoned. Still, it hurt terribly to hear Yen, uncharacteristically gentle, hushing him over and over again as he insisted that he was alone, that he was drowning and alone and that he had to get out. At one point, he seemed convinced that he was undergoing the Trials again, that Vesemir and the other masters had mistaken him for dead and locked him away in the catacombs under Kaer Morhen. At another time, he told Yennefer that he was drowning in the sea, and he coughed as though there were truly water in his lungs. Ciri wanted so badly to go to him then, she sat up and was about to go to sit with him when Yennefer shot her a warning look, a fiery glare in her violet eyes.

“You need to rest. Ciri, listen to me. You’re no good to him dying from exhaustion. I know this is awful, but you need to sleep. Or have you no faith that I can’t keep him alive until morning?”

Ciri was very strongly reminded of her days travelling under Yennefer’s care, many years ago. She resisted the urge to duck her head like a chastised schoolgirl, and simply rolled back over and tried to focus on the dancing shadows on the walls and the crackling of the fire, instead of Geralt’s insistent mutterings and Yennefer’s reassurances. 

“You’re fine,” Yen murmured over and over again, until it became a mantra that lulled Ciri to sleep, “You’re fine, Ciri and I are here, you aren’t on your own and we won’t allow any harm to come to you now. You’re fine. Just sleep.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading and for your lovely kudos/comments!


	9. Ritual

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier makes a mistake. Geralt helps him, in his own way. 
> 
> CW: Ritual/religious torture

Geralt breathed in the cool sea air. He could feel the light layer of salt coating the insides of his nostrils whenever he inhaled, making his skin feel slightly crusted over. The salt was inescapable on the Skelligan Isles, it chased you everywhere, getting on your skin and in your throat and up your nose. As much as Geralt enjoyed the cooler weather of the Isles, the salt drove him to distraction. He had to clean his armour and swords nightly, even when he had not put them to use. And his skin always felt grimy and dirty. He wouldn’t have bothered to travel to the Isles at all, except for the fact that there were often rare subspecies of monsters here, types that simply didn’t occur on the mainland, and often species that were not yet recorded in Kaer Morhen’s bestiary. Call it professional curiosity, but Geralt greatly enjoyed the challenge and research that went into cataloguing a new species. Not to mention, it made for good conversation when he overwintered at the Keep with his brothers. There was a certain level of healthy competitiveness amongst them when it came to making new entry’s in the Keep’s bestiary. It was enjoyable, to be able to regale them with a tale of a new type of monster, of the trials and tribulations of slaying it. Jaskier was a receptive audience, but he simply didn’t have enough knowledge of Geralt’s profession to ask the right questions. Besides, Geralt still felt rather guarded around the bard. After all, he could decide the Witcher was more trouble than he was worth at any time, and leave his side, forcing him to face the road alone again. And while Geralt did not mind travelling alone, he had to admit the bard’s company was, at times, useful. It kept him from going hoarse from months of not using his voice, at the very least. And he was a welcome source of additional income.

Shaking his head to clear it of intrusive thoughts, Geralt got to his feet. He had been sitting at the cliffside all day, waiting for the monster he had been hired to exterminate to make an appearance. Fishermen in the village had said it was like a whale, only larger, bright white, with reddened eyes. Geralt had his suspicions that it was simply a whale affected by albinism or some similar mutation, but he had made no comment; the fishermen had paid him in advance, after all. But after a day of waiting for the monster to make an appearance and seeing neither head nor tail of the beast, Geralt desired nothing more than to return to their camp and get a good night’s sleep. He anticipated several more days of waiting before he caught a glimpse of the creature, and his muscles were stiff and in need of a rest. Sometimes, Jaskier would notice when his muscles were sore and slip in behind him, rubbing at them hard enough to make the ache go away. Geralt would have revelled in that tonight. The sea air disagreed with his joints.

The scrubby grasses on top of the cliff rubbed together noisily in the wind as Geralt made his way down the slope. He had insisted on making camp close to the cliff; near enough that his sharp hearing would be able to pick up the sounds of any large beasts surfacing. It struck him as odd, then, that he could not see the fire as soon as he crested the hill that led down from the cliff. Surely, Jaskier would not have subjected himself to sleeping in such an exposed place without a fire. The wind was whipping across the plants that were sturdy enough to survive in such a desolate place, and spray from the massive waves crashing at the base of the cliff made its way up and over the rise, misting down and casting a chill upon the land. Even Geralt was cold, and normally he was more than happy to make camp without a fire. Jaskier, who complained constantly of the cold affecting his delicate fingers, should have made a bonfire by now. Geralt shook his head and drew up his hood. Perhaps the fire had simply died out while the bard was sleeping.

As Geralt got nearer to the camp, though, he began to sense that something was, in fact, very wrong. The crashing of the waves was more a distant roar than an imminent thundering now; he should have been able to hear the bard’s heartbeat, slowed in sleep. At least, he should have been able to pick up on the gentle undulations of the man’s breathing, disturbing the night air like ripples in a lake. It was a sound he was more than accustomed to, after years of travelling with the bard. But there was nothing. The campsite was undisturbed, silent. Eerily so. There was no stone ring that signified Jaskier had even attempted to start a fire, and all their things were in the exact same position Geralt had left them in hours ago. Roach was picketed, munching on the dense, harsh grass. Geralt’s brows furrowed, and he approached her.

“Where’s he got to, Roach? I don’t suppose you tried to stop him from doing anything foolish.”

She huffed gently, velvety nostrils flaring as she nosed at Geralt’s hand and bumped his chest, liquid eyes looking up at him sweetly. He offered her a small smile and breathed gently on her nostrils, acquainting her with his scent, letting her know it was really him. It was a habit he had acquired long ago, after coming back from hunts smelling more like necrophage or ghoul or whatever other ghastly creature he had been hunting than himself. The scents had spooked Roach. But he had learned that his breath always smelled the same to her, would always reassure her. She nosed him softly, and dropped her head, as if in apology that she could not tell him what had happened to the bard.

“It’s alright,” Geralt stroked the spot between her ears, and felt her head droop in relaxation, “Half the time I can’t keep track of him either. But I suppose I can’t let him wander around all night long. The man’s a disaster waiting to happen.”

Geralt decided not to vocalize his deeper worries; that Jaskier’s propensity for bedding married individuals was well known, and while it may have been relatively well tolerated on the mainland, the Isles were a different story. The so-called purity of marriage was highly valued here, and the punishments for slipping into another man’s marriage bed were extremely harsh. And knowing where the bard usually disappeared to at such hours of the night, Geralt was more than concerned.

Apologizing profusely, Geralt gently settled Roach’s saddle onto her back, slid the bit between her teeth and the bridle up and over her ears. She was unimpressed, as she always was when they had to depart in the wee hours, but she bore it. Geralt reflected once again on how grateful he was to have such a steed. He swung himself up onto her back, making sure anything valuable left at the camp was well hidden. Then, he left the crashing of the waves and the whistling of the wind behind him, descending into the lower valley towards the lights of the fishing village. He tried to quell the anxiety that was building in his stomach at the thought of what the bard might have gotten himself into.

\----

There were more windows and streets lit up than there should be in such a small town so late at night. Geralt could smell the oil from the street lanterns, and the wicks burning, even from a good mile off. And he could see them, far too bright, shining against the backlight of the blackened valley. In what seemed to be the town’s main square, there was a plume of smoke rising, and Geralt could smell burning birch wood. He knew of very few reasons why such a small village would choose to have a bonfire in the early hours before dawn. None of them were good. He just hoped that none of these reasons concerned the bard. Nudging Roach into a harder gallop, Geralt covered the last mile extremely quickly, heart hammering and adrenaline spiking at the thought that he might have to fight his way out of this. He also felt a brief spike of shame; part of him was all too ready to draw his swords on anyone who had harmed Jaskier. For a man who was trying to prove his humanity, Geralt sometimes felt awfully animalistic. There was nothing more shameful than the itch he occasionally felt to draw his sword, to fight, and damn the consequences. He knew he was better than that. He had been trained not to be rash, not to act out of turn. And when he had, in the past, Geralt had paid for it.

There were no guards at the town’s small gates. That was his second clue that something was wrong. Whatever was happening in the town’s square was intriguing enough that the guards had abandoned their posts, consequences be damned. Geralt swung his leg over Roach and landed with a crunch on the gravel road, tethering her to a tree a hidden in the bushes off the side of the ditch.

“In case things should go badly,” he explained to her, “I don’t want something to happen to you.”

Geralt unbuckled secured all his extraneous items on her saddle, opting to take just his steel sword and a small dagger, hidden away in his boots. No point in overdoing his weaponry when he still hadn’t the faintest idea what was happening here. Then, he gave Roach a parting scratch on the ears and ducked into the village, senses on high alert.

The place was absolutely deserted. Windows were lit, and the lanterns cast pale pools of light on the gravel roads, but there was no one in sight, only the distant roar of the bonfire in the town square. Geralt set his teeth and moved forwards quietly, carefully setting his feet on the treacherous, crunchy gravel. Still, there was nothing. It was eerie, and every sense in the Witcher’s body told him there was something very wrong here. He was nearly about to draw his sword from the sheer unsettling nature of the situation when he heard a voice, clear and calm, echoing from the general direction of the town square and the bonfire. Geralt didn’t need to hear more than a few words before he sheathed his sword, and ran.

All the townsfolk were gathered in the square. The started in a small circle near the raging, roaring fire, which shot sparks like fireworks up into the night sky, and radiated all slowly outwards. They were all deadly silent, solemn and cold, almost statuesque. In the middle of the innermost circle, stood two men, one of whom was bound by his arms to a tall wooden post which was large enough to have been cut from one of the great pines that populated Skellige. Geralt’s heart stopped. He cursed, violently, and nearly drew his sword and threw it at a nearby building, just to quell a bit of the rage flaming up inside him. The man tied to the post, hanging miserably by his wrists and looking pale and absolutely terrified, was Jaskier. Geralt knew he couldn’t kill these people. That the guilt would destroy him. But just for one moment, he wanted to sever their limbs, and watch the blood wend its way through the cobblestones, a myriad of stolen lives. He shook himself. No, killing would not solve this. He had to find a more elegant solution.

Geralt elbowed his way through the crowd, generating angry glares from the villagers, who were watching the fire and the two men with rapt attention. The unbound man, probably the town’s alderman, was speaking.  
“The minimum sentence for such an act of betrayal is one cut, for every minute spent destroying the sanctity of the marriage bed. I am not a cruel man, and I will not heighten this sentence. One cut for every minute is sixty, for the full hour he spent with Randall’s wife. We have never known a man to survive past fifty, here.”

Geralt heard Jaskier’s terrified groan, and his heart sank. Death by cuts was outlawed and considered barbaric on the mainland, everywhere Geralt had travelled. It was only practiced on Skellige, and it was extremely cruel and desperately painful. He would die before he saw Jaskier subjected to such a torture. Whatever the man had done in the town, he was only on the Skelligan Isles because Geralt had accepted a contract here. This was Geralt’s fault. It should be he who paid the price.

As a whirlwind plan formed in the Witcher’s mind, he pushed through the final rank of villagers, stumbling into the open space by the bonfire just as the alderman was sticking his knife into the fire. A strange kindness, Geralt thought, to cauterize the knife he was going to use to kill a man.

“Leave him be.” Geralt growled, narrowing his eyes, trying to cut as imposing a figure as possible. The alderman turned, appraised him, and laughed.

“And why should we do that, Witcher? This man knowingly bedded a married woman. That is the highest sin in our lands. The ultimate offence to the gods. And the gods demand payment for such a sin.”

Jaskier watched with his mouth gaping, seemingly unable to comprehend that Geralt had found him. The Witcher noticed salty tracks on his face, from sweat or tears he was unsure. He gave the bard a small, reassuring nod. Jaskier’s breaths quickened. Geralt took a breath of his own, knowing there would be not turning back once he said what he was about to say.

“I’m a mutant. My blood is…different. More powerful. Take me, and give your bastard gods something more powerful than the blood of a travelling bard.”

The man swept forward and backhanded Geralt across the face even as Jaskier cried out for him to stop, to not be an idiot. Geralt took the slap stoically, allowing his head to snap back enough to make the alderman think it had hurt him. He could hear Jaskier struggling, chains rattling, and he tried to block it out. Geralt knew nothing of gods or religion. Making up a crock of bullshit on the spot had never been his strong suit.

“Your gods…I’m sure they value mercy as well. I’ll take his place and let you take my blood, but only if you let the bard go. He’s a mainlander, can’t be expected to know your customs. Let him go and he’ll never trouble you again, and you’ll have a better blood payment than you planned.”

The alderman seemed to consider for a moment, as Jaskier continued struggling and shouting every insult under the sun at Geralt. The Witcher tried to pay him no mind. This would be easier on both of them if he didn’t interact, let Jaskier leave with as little guilt as possible. The townspeople were cheering now, and the alderman turned and released the locks on Jaskier’s shackles, motioning to two larger men to pick him up and drag him away.

“Fuck! Geralt, for Melitele’s sake, don’t do this! You’ll die, you heroic idiot!”

There were tears streaming down Jaskier’s face as he was dragged by, And Geralt shot him a momentary look, hoping it conveyed all he intended. Then, the alderman, who had taken Geralt’s sword and thrown it on the ground with a resounding clang, manhandled the Witcher forward to take the bard’s place. Jaskier’s cries were gone now; they must have released him outside the city. Geralt slumped a little in relief, even as the man withdrew a wicked looking, curved knife from the fire. 

“Sixty cuts. One for each moment the lady Esmeralda’s honour was sullied.”

The crowd cheered, and the alderman met Geralt’s eyes with a challenge in his own. Geralt spat at his feet.

“I’m sure she enjoyed every second of it, you bastard.”  
With that, the alderman snarled and lunged forward, pressing the hot knife to Geralt’s chest. Sparks flew into the night sky, and the villagers howled in triumph.

\----

It felt like hours later. Geralt had lost count of how many times the burning knife had sliced across his skin, only that his entire body felt raw and oh so very cold. There was blood seeping into the soles of his boots. His own blood. He could see it because he no longer possessed the strength to lift his head. It glimmered dully in the light of the fire, reminding him of a cranberry pudding he had once indulged in at one of Jaskier’s ridiculous performances. Every once in a while, the alderman would drag his knife across Geralt’s skin, and the pain of it made him shiver. The man had moved on from his torso and was now cutting along his back. Rivulets of hot blood did nothing to assuage the cold Geralt was feeling.

Somewhere, very distantly, he heard a number.

“Fifty three.”

Geralt sagged against the shackles. His legs were trembling even though they were doing nothing to support his weight, and his thoughts were distracted. He remembered a long time ago, just before he had set out for his first year on the Path, Vesemir had told him something. About pain. About how the more injuries you received, the more painful they became, because your body was beginning to expect them and was able to process the pain better. Geralt had never experienced the effects of this so vividly. His whole body felt raw, like the alderman had sliced his skin away with a paring knife. Shudders ripped though him, and more blood leaked onto the ground. 

Then, there was no more continuation of the knife strokes. No more sharp bursts of pain. For a moment, Geralt felt a tenuous, shuddering sort of peace. There was quiet, but for the crackling of the fire, which was a familiar sound to him, a comfort amidst so many unfamiliarities and so much pain. He sighed. 

Quite suddenly, the shackles around his arms were released, and he collapsed to the ground, and then, gods, he felt everything. Every inch of his skin, every nerve screaming in agony, begging him to stop whatever he was doing that was hurting his body so. Geralt felt a weak groan pass by his lips, thought he heard distant laughter, but the pain burned at him more strongly than the fire at the logs in the nearby bonfire, and he didn’t care if the whole damn world was laughing at him. He curled up as best he could, feel the heat of his own blood, so recently in his body, warming him a little. They had cut away his shirt, and he would have given anything to have it back.

The alderman’s face swam into Geralt’s blurry vision, and he blinked. There was blood running in his eyes, and it made it hard to see. The man grabbed Geralt’s chin and forced his face upwards.

“Our Gods are singing their thanks tonight. We’ll let you bleed out here, where they can take their pleasure in watching you die.”

Geralt wanted to spit, but he couldn’t muster the energy. The alderman dropped his head and it bounced on the cobblestones, making his vision flicker. He felt he should be concerned, about the whole bleeding out comment. But he simply couldn’t bring himself to care about anything. He felt…floaty. And oh so very tired. Perhaps he would close his eyes, rest a little bit. He could make his escape when he had his strength back. Yes, he just needed to rest his eyes for a moment. They were tired and heavy. Then he’d find Jaskier, and Roach…

The next thing Geralt knew, someone was shaking him desperately. He winced, wishing it would stop. He was already dizzy and tired. Couldn’t they just let him rest peacefully? The shaking continued, though, and Geralt thought he could hear a desperate voice, saying his name. He cracked an eye, blinked a few times, and saw Jaskier. He cursed.

“Ah…Jaskier, get out of here.” It was more of a croak than the forceful tone Geralt had been hoping for, but it would have to do. Jaskier stopped shaking him and sighed with relief.

“Geralt, thank Melitele. I…I thought you were dead.”

With every inch of his skin crackling and burning with fiery pain, part of Geralt wished very much to be dead. He kept this from the bard, though. There were more pressing matters at hand.

“If they find you…they’ll kill you. Didn’t do this so you could…go and die…anyways.”

“You idiot. They’ve all gone to bed. The streets are dark. I’m here to help you back to camp, so we can get you cleaned up and get the hell away from this place. Roach is worried for you, you know.”

Geralt barely noticed that Jaskier had somehow managed to slip an arm under his knees and around his shoulders, and was carrying him away from the smouldering embers of the bonfire. The Witcher started, partially from pain, but also in surprise. When had Jaskier gotten so strong? It hardly mattered, though, because Geralt was shivering from blood loss and the loss of his shirt, and the bard was so very warm. It hurt, but Geralt managed to wrap his arm around Jaskier’s neck and press his face into the warmth of the other man’s doublet. He could hear the bard’s pulse, racing away inside his chest. Geralt wanted to ask why he was so worried. Wanted to tell him that everything was alright, that he was warm and tired and that he was sure they’d get out of this mess just like they had countless times before. But he was simply too exhausted; his eyes were drooping, and Jaskier kept shaking him and telling him to keep awake. Geralt just wanted to sleep. It had been hours since he had last felt so warm.

Vaguely, Geralt felt the upwards motion as Jaskier pushed him onto Roach and mounted up behind him. Something warm was wrapped around his shoulders; a cloak, he thought, to ward off the night’s chill. He leaned back again, against Jaskier’s warmth. The bard wrapped an arm ever so carefully around him, mindful of the sixty weeping wounds that decorated his chest and back. Not that Geralt could really feel them anymore. Not individually, at least. His skin ached, though, like he had been flayed alive. 

“You’re alright, Geralt. Let’s get you back to camp. I’ll take care of you. Goddess knows you need it.”

Geralt could count on one hand the number of times in his life that he had heard those words. Had he felt better, been more lucid, he would have brushed off his need to hear them as a weakness, borne of travelling with a companion for two long. But as he was, he felt nothing but relief. Relief that he didn’t have to worry about stitching and bandaging all sixty of his wounds by himself. Relief that he wouldn’t have to slump off Roach’s back, and drag himself to his bedroll. Jaskier was…good with things like that. Good at making sure Geralt was alright. And right now, tired and shaky, he was incredibly grateful for the bard.

Still, he couldn’t help but notice that there was a shaky tint in the bard’s voice, even more so once they arrived back at the camp and Jaskier helped him off Roach, carried him to his bedroll, settled him ever so gently. The bard was always talking, always explaining what he was doing, but now something seemed off about his voice. It trembled, like it was about to break. Geralt turned his head sideways a bit sloppily and caught Jaskier’s hand before he could get up.

“Geralt, what are you doing? We need to get these bandaged yesterday unless you want to bleed out.”

Geralt tugged the bard down closer, not trusting his voice. He was shivering violently.

“You…you’re okay?” He managed to splutter the words out between bursts of cold. The wind was relentless up here. Jaskier let out a huffing, exasperated laugh, which sounded very much not okay. Geralt pried his eyes open a bit further, trying to catch the bard’s gaze.

“No. No I’m bloody well not okay. You…you just walked in there and…and offered yourself up! Like a slab of meat! After they said that I was most likely going to die! And you just walked up and took it, like it was fine if you died! Dammit, what the fuck is wrong with you? There are easier ways to go, you know, if you’ve a death wish.”

Geralt winced. He had rarely heard Jaskier speak so angrily towards him; the man was usually accepting of his turbulent moods and silent days and never raised his voice about it. It was odd that this was what had pushed him over the edge.

“Doesn’t matter…if I die. ’S bound to happen, sooner or later.”

As soon as the words passed through his mouth, Geralt knew he had picked wrong. He heard Jaskier’s shuddering intake of breath. His hand, which was still on the bard’s arm, was violently shaken off. He took a few moments to compose himself, before he spoke. 

“You,” the words began, and Geralt shuddered, because they were an intense whisper, close and furious and hot on his cheek, “Are fucking important to me. It would matter to me if you died. I wait for you after every single one of your damned hunts, and every single time I am fucking terrified that this is the time you won’t come back, that I’ll have to go out there and find your body ripped to pieces, that I’ll have to unclasp that medallion from around your neck and close the earth over your face and return nothing more than a piece of jewellery to your brothers at Kaer Morhen. Fuck, I don’t even know where Kaer Morhen is, but I would fucking find it, because I would need to give that back to them, because they would miss you. And I would miss you. So it does fucking matter if you die. It matters, Geralt. And now I’m going to stitch you up, and bandage your back, and you’re going to shut up and sleep before I throw you over that cliff.”

Geralt’s heart hammered in his chest, from more than the pain of his wounds. He wanted to curse. He had never been good with identifying what those around him were feeling, but this? This was all wrong. He had gone on for so long, thinking that he was little more to Jaskier than a source for his ballads, a muse, perhaps. Maybe occasionally a friend, if Geralt could allow himself to have such things. But not this. He had never thought Jaskier would take his medallion back to Kaer Morhen if he died. To be honest, he was surprised the bard even remembered the rare times he had mentioned the keep. He sighed, tired but needing to get the words out, needing to get them off his chest.

“‘M sorry, little lark,” Geralt heard Jaskier’s breath stop when he uttered the nickname that until now he had reserved for use only in his own thoughts, thinking it idiotic, “I…you’re important to me too. That’s…that’s why.”

There was a moment of silence, when all Geralt could hear was the chattering of his teeth and the thudding of his heart and very far away the crashing and pounding of the sea. Then, Jaskier took in a pained breath, more like a wheeze. He bent over Geralt’s side, nestling his face in the Witcher’s hair. And he sobbed. The waves kept crashing. A mist was descending, and it made Geralt feel so very cold, but he couldn’t move; fear froze him in place. He must have said something truly horrendous, but he couldn’t understand what it might have been, and he was starting to lose his grip on his consciousness. Whatever was happening, it needed to be resolved before he passed out. He placed a clumsy, hurting hand on Jaskier’s trembling back.

“’S wrong?” He barely slurred the words out. The bard looked up.

“Oh! Oh, fuck. Gods. I’m sorry, Geralt.”

He sniffed and wiped his eyes and nose on the sleeve of his doublet.

“I’m alright. Just…I was so worried for you. When I walked back into that square, and the bonfire was all burned down, and you were just lying there, I thought you were dead. I thought you were dead and that my stupidity had killed you. So come here, and let me dress your wounds and give you something for the pain and keep you comfortable until you’re well again. It’s the least I can do.”

That sounded plenty fine to Geralt. He was exhausted and terribly cold, and his wounds were only half bandaged. He rolled over a bit, offering up a slab of his raw back to Jaskier, and sighed when he felt the bard drape a blanket over him and wrap bandages around the cuts in his side.

“Go to sleep,” Geralt heard Jaskier say, in a distant way, “I’ll join you when I’m done. It’ll be a cold night. I’ll keep you warm.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! I feel like I say this for every chapter I post but this was one of my favourites to write so I hope you enjoyed.


	10. Blood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After Posada, Jaskier discovers that head wounds bleed a lot.

Jaskier meandered along in front of Geralt for several miles after they left Posada and Dol Blathanna in the dust. He had taken the Witcher’s instructions not to touch Roach very seriously, especially considering his gut was still smarting a bit from the last time he had tried to overstep his bounds. He strummed at his lute, heart racing a bit with excitement at the thought of his new composition. Sometimes, when he composed a chord progression or a harmony, it made his hair stand on end. That was how Jaskier knew when a particular melody would be good. Peasants and villagers did not always have ears for music, but when one could compose a piece that spurred a visceral, physical reaction? Everyone paid to hear music that made their spine tingle. And this piece, from the first chord all the way through to the bridge, sent shivers rocking up and down Jaskier’s spine. He could hardly contain his excitement. There was a new bounce to his step, a feeling of rebirth, a hope that he wouldn’t have to spent the rest of his days strumming his lute in return for mouldy vegetables. 

With the sun beginning to set, casting long shadows on the high cliffs that still rose on either side of them, Jaskier turned, intending to see what Geralt’s plans were for the night. He hoped the Witcher would not do away with him. Heroics and heartbreak indeed, but there was something more deeply intriguing about the White Wolf. Jaskier almost felt drawn to him. As a man who put great stock in destiny, he could not ignore such a feeling. Perhaps, just perhaps, he had found where he was meant to be.

“Geralt? Are you planning on stopping for the night? Or do Witchers not need to sleep? I’ve never met one before, you know, and stranger things have been known to happen…”

At this last word he wheeled to face the Witcher and his horse, and his jaw dropped.

“Great hells!”

Geralt reined in Roach with a gentle tug, and scowled as Jaskier before looking around, trying to scope out what had alarmed the bard. Coming up empty-handed, he faced Jaskier again.

“Yes?”

“You…your face! How long have you been riding like that? How can you see? Do we need to ride back to Posada and fetch a healer? Sweet Melitele, I knew the life of a Witcher was dangerous, but I wasn’t expecting this!”

Geralt looked infuriatingly calm, if a little confused. He quirked a brow by way of a question.

“The blood, Geralt! All over your face! You look like something took a bite out of you!”

“Ah.”

Geralt reached up and poked at the crusty blood for a moment, taking his glove away from his face and investigating its contents at close range. He blinked a few times, and did something odd with his pupils that made Jaskier feel very nervous; no normal human could make their pupils expand and contract that rapidly. The Witcher frowned.

“It’s just from where they hit me, before they captured us. It’ll heal in a few days.”

Jaskier gaped. He could feel his jaw working, in a way that his father had once described as “making him look like a beached fish”. 

“No, no, no. This is ridiculous. You’re positively coated with blood, Geralt. It’s all over you. This is not a ‘heals in a few days’ type of injury! You…you could be concussed!”

“I am. But it’ll heal. Stop your yelling. If you were so worried about my being concussed, you wouldn’t be making such a racket and making my headache worse. We’ll camp once we get out of this gorge. Less chance of an ambush without high walls surrounding us.”

Jaskier could find nothing to say after that. Whoever had said Witchers were mad was absolutely right. He had had a concussion himself, in his earlier youth, and harboured horrible memories of spending days in bed, nauseated by the slightest light or movement. He stole another look at Geralt. The man didn’t even look dizzy. Unnatural, indeed.

\----

When they finally ascended out of the gorge and onto a grassy plateau, it was well past dark. Jaskier had stopped strumming his lute after his and Geralt’s earlier conversation, not wanting to bother the man’s head, though he seemed perfectly fine. Without music, though, the night was eerily silent. Every hooting owl and vole rustling through the grass made Jaskier jump. He always played while he was travelling. It felt wrong not to do so now, especially with so many tunes and melodies swirling in his mind. He tapped his fingers idly on his thigh, trying to distract himself.

Suddenly, the bard heard a jingling noise behind him, and spun just in time to see Geralt dismounting, taking a moment to steady himself on Roach’s side. It was the first sign the bard had seen that he had taken any sort of injury, and in an odd way it made him feel a bit relieved. Perhaps Geralt wasn’t so infallible as he wanted others to believe.

“Are we stopping?”

“Clearly.”

Geralt was busying himself removing Roach’s saddle and bridle, and he tossed a few dry logs off her back in Jaskier’s general direction.

“We’ll need a fire, unless you intend on freezing.”

Jaskier shrugged. This was something he could do. He had been building fires since he had left his family’s home nigh on four years ago. He cracked his knuckles and set to, determined to prove to Geralt that he wasn’t a completely useless travel companion. Within a few moments, he had a merry blaze going.

“Say, Geralt, have you got any pots? It seems in all the excitement I’ve left mine at the…”

Jaskier trailed off when he looked up and saw Geralt, standing next to his now untacked horse, uselessly trying to rub dried blood out of his long hair. It seemed that whoever had hit him had got him on both the front and the back of the head; there was blood everywhere, even running down his neck and into his shirt. The Witcher looked up when Jaskier stopped talking.

“In my bags. I’ll bring them in a moment.”

“You’ll do no such thing. You’re in a right state. You know, you could have just asked and I would have been more than happy to wash away that blood for you. So come here, and let me get it off, and then you’re going to lie down while I make us something to eat. Unless Witchers don’t need sustenance, either?”

Geralt shot Jaskier an absolutely venomous look, but after a few more failed attempts with the cloth, he cursed, bent over his bags to retrieve a set of steel pots, and made his way over to a log by the fire. Jaskier held out his hand, and the Witcher pressed the damp rag into his fingers with another glare, which the bard chose to ignore.

“How worried should I be about this? You know, the blood and everything. Should I be bandaging it, or seeking out a healer, or simply leaving it be?”

“Leave it. The bleeding’s mostly stopped.”

Jaskier nodded, this made fair sense to him, in a twisted sort of way. He mopped away the rest of the blood, not failing to notice that the Witcher didn’t flinch, not once. He wondered if Geralt could feel pain. If the rumours were true, he couldn’t feel anything. But Jaskier had never put much stock in rumours.

“I can.”

“What?”

“Feel pain. I can feel what you’re doing to me right now. I know you were wondering.”

“Oh.”

For once in his life, Jaskier decided it was best to be quiet. For all his boorish grunting and long silences, the bard was already learning that Geralt was more perceptive than met the eye. Gods knew what else the man noticed and chose not to comment on.

“The blood’s mostly gone now. Do you have anything for the pain? You’ve a huge lump on your head, and you’ve just admitted that it hurts.”

Geralt shook his head.

“It would just slow me down.”

“All the same to me. Now, go lie down. I’ve got some bread and jerky and such with me. I can make dinner. You need to rest, regardless of whatever other unnatural healing feats Witchers are capable of.”

Geralt brought his knees up closer to his chest and rested his elbow on them, and his chin on his elbows, staring into the crackling fire. He cut quite an intimidating picture, with flecks of blood still splattered across his face and his hair. If Jaskier hadn’t known him (and did he really even know him?), he would have run in the opposite direction. However, after a moment of silent contemplation, the Witcher stood and snatched up his bedroll from his pile of things, and stalked off to a nearby tree. After a moment of rustling, he was still, and Jaskier looked up and allowed himself a small smile when he saw that Geralt was curled up on his side, his eyes drifting shut before snapping back open, the picture of exhausted vigilance.

“I’m not going to kill you while you sleep, you know,” he called, sensing the potential cause of Geralt’s wakefulness, “I’ll wake you when dinner’s ready, if you want to sleep. It’s been a long day.”

“Hmm.”

Geralt rolled over then, but Jaskier could tell from the way he tapped his foot ever so slightly on the ground that he was not asleep. The bard chose to ignore it, for the moment. He hoped Geralt would still sleep at night, though. And even more, he hoped the Witcher didn’t perceive him as a threat, and that it was merely instincts that kept him wakeful and watching.

After about twenty minutes, Jaskier had toasted the whole loaf of bread that had been thrown at him at the inn that morning, as well as warmed some jerky to make it a bit more palatable. Deciding it would probably not be the wisest decision to go and shake Geralt right now, he simply called to him, knowing the other man would hear.

“I’ve made dinner! If you’re awake.”

Geralt rolled over and put a hand to the back of his head. The bard almost went to him when he blinked dizzily a few times, but then he shook his head as though to clear it, and righted himself without any issue. Jaskier offered him up a piece of bread, feeling a bit bemused, not wanting to overstep what appeared to be a very delicate new friendship, but also concerned for the Witcher. Concussions were nothing to be trifled with, and he didn’t want the man to simply keel over and die. 

“Are you sure you’re alright? I mean, what with taking two hits to the head today and all…concussions can be deadly, you know. And, well, I’d prefer if you didn’t die.”

“Not gotten enough material for your songs yet, bard?” Geralt settled back against the log, legs stretched out in front of him, and shot Jaskier an inquisitive glance, as though he was trying to scope out the bard’s motives.

“Gods, no! I’m not heartless, despite what you appear to believe. I don’t want you to die because…well…dying isn’t good.”

Jaskier flopped his hand limply in the air, and Geralt’s dark eyebrow inched higher up on his forehead. The bard blushed a little. He didn’t find himself at a loss for words often, but he was unsure of what to say to this strange man, who he was finding himself beginning to care about. Surely, such a revelation would alarm Geralt, who seemed to have attachments to nothing and no one but his horse. 

“You’re right. But I’m not dying. I’ve a headache, that’s all.”

“Come off it. I know you’re dizzy. I saw you getting up from your bedroll and wobbling all over the place.”

The Witcher quirked an eyebrow and lifted his lips in a half-smirk. Jaskier gulped, and Geralt took another bite of his bread.

“I’ll be fine, bard. Better off if you’d stop your incessant chattering.”

“Just…just don’t go off and die without even having the good graces to tell me that’s what’s happening first.”

“Wasn’t planning on it.”

Jaskier settled back, deciding to leave the log to Geralt for the time being, and found his own tree to rest against, watching the sparks from the dying fire rise up into the night. Normally, he would’ve taken this opportunity to work through some progressions on his lute, perhaps come up with a few themes for a new ballad. But, he got the sense that his lute would do nothing but irritate Geralt, and he didn’t particularly fancy being left alone here in the middle of the night. So, Jaskier contented himself with humming under his breath, scribbling thoughts and scraps of verse that drifted through his tired mind down in his notebook. He spent nigh on three hours like this, and when he looked up, the fire was reduced to smouldering embers, shifting and glistening in the dark. It took Jaskier’s eyes a moment to adjust, and when they did, he saw that Geralt had fallen asleep by the fire, head tipped back in a way that looked most uncomfortable. The bard snorted to himself. So much for constant vigilance. Although he supposed he could forgive it; Geralt was likely in more pain than he was letting on. Setting his notebook aside, Jaskier slipped over and made to poke at the fire, hoping to rouse the Witcher without having to touch him.

After a few seconds of noisy rustling and unnecessary cursing at the wood, Geralt awoke with a deep inhalation. Jaskier turned and smiled brightly at him, knowing the Witcher would not need time for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. At least they would not if the rumours he had heard were true.

“Perhaps it’d be better to sleep in your bed than half tipped over a log by the campfire? You know, cramped necks and all that. You’ve probably got enough on your plate without not being able to turn your head for a week.”

“Hmmm.”

Geralt leaned forwards to place his elbows on his knees, and for a moment the dying embers caught his eyes, turning them from amber yellow to a deep orange. Jaskier had to shake himself. He would have to work that into a ballad at some point. The Witcher looked up at him, shot him a quizzical glance.

“Roach and I will leave at dawn. Best get some sleep if you’re wanting to be well rested enough to accompany us.”

Jaskier looked up again, and his heart skipped a beat.

“Really?”

Geralt answered with an inclination of his head instead of with words, rising to his feet and taking a moment to massage his temples. Clearly, whatever residual headache he was suffering from after their run in with the elves was still paining him. But Jaskier was too happy to worry much. It was better than he had ever expected it to turn out, Geralt asking him to stay by his side. Despite the slightly insensitive way in which he had worded it, it made Jaskier feel, for the first time in a long time, that his skills had worth. That someone could make use of him. Part of the bard wanted to go and wrap the Witcher in his arms, heart pounding from the sheer excitement of it all. But he knew Geralt would not appreciate such a gesture, and settled for rolling out his bedroll near the fire, enough to give Geralt some space. 

“Night.” Jaskier called it out, shivering deliciously at the way it echoed in the empty space around them. The echoing was something that would have spooked him mere days ago, but now it felt full of possibility, of adventure and delight and the beginning of something new.

“Goodnight, bard.”

There was a bit more rustling about, presumably as Geralt settled himself into a more comfortable position, and then silence. Not even an audible, even breath. It was unnatural, strange, but Jaskier revelled in it. He took a deep breath, inhaling the chill night air, and wondered at what was yet to come.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!


	11. Tear

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt grieves for Eskel. Returning from a hunt, the other Witcher finds him in a sorry state.

Eskel stumbled back to the camp, utterly exhausted. Not for the first time, he was regretting making such an idiotic wager with Geralt. As if anyone truly wanted to take on a Leshen singlehanded. But they had made a deal, flipped a coin, and Eskel had lost. And so, here he was, dripping wet, the ends of his hair singed, a bloody cut on his hand already well on its way to closing up. Geralt was never going to hear the end of this. 

When he approached the camp, though, it was oddly silent. The sun was well over the horizon; Geralt should have been packed and ready to accompany Eskel back to the town to collect their pay. In the towns around Kaer Morhen, travelling with another Witcher meant a higher payout, simply because the people here were terrified of them. While Eskel felt a bit guilty capitalizing on their fear, he knew it was undeserved. And when he had met Geralt on the road back to the keep, neither of them had eaten in nigh on a week. They needed the coin.

There were birds chirping in the trees above their campsite. There was no smoke rising from a newly put out fire. Nothing to suggest anyone had even been awake here this morning. And while Eskel had left in the middle hours of the night, well before Geralt would have woken, he definitely should have been awake by now. Awake, fed, and ready to leave. Eskel tried to shake off his irritation. After sending him off to hunt a dangerous monster all on his own (albeit at his own agreement; Geralt had tried to convince him out of the bet), it didn’t seem at all in keeping with Geralt’s character to simply sleep away the morning. In fact, Eskel had never seen his brother sleep in. He wasn’t even sure the other man was capable of such a thing. 

“Geralt? Come on, you bastard, don’t tell me you left me here.”

Such an act would once again be completely out of character for Geralt, but at this point Eskel just wanted to inspire a reaction. But there was nothing. He drew his bloodied sword and inched into the camp carefully. Perhaps a monster had distracted his brother’s attentions. But it would be a strange monster, that made no noise, and left no scent of trail, particularly to senses as keenly attuned as Geralt and Eskel’s. Surely, if there had been a threat so close to their camp, the two Witcher would have noticed before they had settled in for the night.

When he finally had a clear view of the camp, Eskel re-sheathed his sword, adrenaline replaced with a cold pit of fear. Geralt’s bedroll was as undisturbed as he had left it this morning, Geralt still fast asleep. One of his arms was thrown over his head, though, and his breathing was quick, sweat beading on his brow.

“Dammit, for fuck’s sake, why didn’t you say anything?”

Wiping some leftover blood and guts from his face (he had needed to kill several wolves before actually getting the Leshen to reveal itself), Eskel knelt by his brother. Sure enough, his heart was racing, thudding inside his chest. He looked sweaty and miserable. Eskel shook his shoulder, and bleary golden eyes blinked and squinted in the sun.

“And just when were you planning on telling me about this? By my estimation, it’s been well over a week since you last ate.”

Geralt’s eyes weren’t focused on Eskel, though. They kept drifting, side to side, like he was looking for something. 

“Trees that interesting, huh? It’s funny what a fever will do to your brain. Especially when you willfully ignore it and leave it untreated for gods know how long.”

With that, Geralt’s eyes snapped onto Eskel’s face, and his expression changed from sleepy and bemused to heartbroken in an instant. A weak hand reached up in the general direction of Eskel’s face, but missed touching him, and which point Geralt’s face screwed up in absolute misery.

“Eskel…fuck, Eskel, what did I do?”

“Besides letting yourself get ill instead of stealing some food in the last village? I’m not sure. It would be helpful if you told me, so I can get you better again. It won’t do any good to show up at the keep like this. Vesemir will keel over.”

“No…th’ Leshen. You…you’re gone. Fuck, and I let you.”

Geralt’s speech was quickly devolving into fevered murmurings, and there was sweat drenching his face and hair. Eskel frowned, utterly confused, and pressed the back of his hand to Geralt’s forehead. It was worryingly warm.

“I’m here, Geralt. With you. The Leshen was a bastard to kill, and I’m an idiot for not letting you talk me out of tossing a coin to see who got to kill it, but I’m back. It’s alright.”

“’S the problem. I’m…there’s no way…’m still alive. Haven’t eaten in…forever. So you must b’dead too.”

Geralt looked absolutely wrecked. His face was pale, with a reddened flush on his cheeks from the fever. And his face displayed such open, painful heartbreak that Eskel wanted nothing more than to gather him up and hold him. Such instincts did not come easily to Witchers; they were beaten out of them at a young age. But Eskel would do anything for his brother. And right now, he looked utterly broken.

“I’m not dead, Geralt,” Eskel whispered gently, tucking a loose strand of whispy grey curls behind the other Witcher’s ear, “And neither are you. You’re just a self sacrificing idiot who has such a nobility complex he can’t bring himself to steal a loaf of bread from some villagers to keep himself from starving. So, I’m going to look after you, and then we’ll worry about getting payment and getting back to the keep.”

Geralt blinked. His eyes were hazy, and his hands kept twitching, seemingly more of their own volition. He rolled side to side, clearly unsettled. Eskel held his head, unsure of what else to do. It had been a long time since he had tended to anyone who was ill. Witchers were solitary creatures, after all. After a long while, Geralt seemed to almost have fallen back asleep, muttering to himself occasionally, but seemingly resting fairly well besides this. Then, suddenly, he roused again, gasping and choking. Eskel, who had been half asleep himself, barely had time to react before he realized that Geralt was calling his name, over and over, trying to get himself upright.

“Shhh, stop it, you’re going to hurt yourself. Just…fuck…lie back down.”

Geralt was still formidably strong, even when he was half out of his mind with fever, and he fought Eskel, eyes unseeing, trying over and over again to get to his feet and calling his brother’s name. Eventually, though, he slumped back down, lifeless and covered in sweat. Eskel sighed with relief, and was about to stand when something made him stop and take a second look. Maybe it was the cant of his brother’s shoulders, the way they trembled. Eskel so badly wanted to go wash up a bit, clean the wolf guts off his face. But then he looked back, and there were fucking tears running down Geralt’s face. They were bright and clear, and at first Eskel mistook them for sweat. He wanted to mistake them for sweat, because he had rarely ever seen Geralt cry. Not after the Trials, not when he was selected for a second round. Not even when they had first met at the keep, and he was a curly-headed boy of six whose mother had just abandoned him in a ditch. And now, here he was, shoulders shuddering with silent sobs, and Eskel felt so completely powerless. He knew it was probably the fever. Whatever Geralt was hallucinating, he appeared to think that Eskel had died, and it was somehow his fault. But it just felt so horribly wrong. Geralt did not cry. He barely succumbed to the most necessary of emotions. The fact that Eskel’s (fictitious) death could bring him to such a state tore at the other Witcher’s heartstrings. He bent back down and gripped Geralt’s shoulders, shaking him gently.

“I’m here, you hear me? I’m here, and I’m alive, and I’m ready to torment you every day from here to Kaer Morhen for allowing yourself to get into such a state. But don’t just go about shedding tears for people who are right here with you, and who aren’t anywhere near dying. You…save that for when I’m actually dead, alright?”

Geralt took a few shuddering gasps, and his eyes flickered open. He was breathing heavily; it sounded more like heaving sobs than normal, healthy breaths.

“E-Eskel? ’S that you?”

“Of course it’s me, you useless bastard. Didn’t think I’d go and die on a fucking Leshen hunt, now did you? Can’t say the same for you, though. You might have told me you’ve been several weeks without food. I can feel your damn ribs.”

Geralt shrugged, seemingly unaware that there were still a few rogue tears trickling down his face, dampening the grey cloak he had been using as a pillow. Eskel chose to ignore it as well.

“Wouldn’t’ve helped.”

“Let me go get cleaned up, and then we can just sit for a while, alright? Just until this fever breaks a little bit. And then we’re getting you some food and a proper place to sleep.”

“”S…a good plan.” Geralt grimaced, his eyes slipping closed. Eskel stood and stripped himself of his dirty armour and clothes, pouring some water from the water skin over himself before putting on some slightly less horrendous smelling garments. He made his way back to Geralt, easing himself down in the grass next to him. The silver-haired Witcher cracked an eye.

“Eskel?”

“Yes, Geralt?” Eskel moved over and lifted his brother’s head, pillowing it in his lap and making it so he could look right down at him.

“I feel…strange. Like my throat’s all…full. But not eating shouldn’t do that.”

“You were sobbing a moment ago, Geralt. I’m not surprised your throat hurts. It sounded bloody painful.”

“…Tears?”

“You thought I had died. Something about you feeling guilty because you had coerced me into flipping a coin for that Leshen. Which I assure you, you did not.”

Eskel knew that Geralt’s mutations prevented him from blushing, but they did not assuage the other physical tells that came along with embarrassment. Geralt’s hands fidgeted at his sides, and he averted his gaze, looking more than a little humiliated. 

“It doesn’t matter. You’ve got a fever, and you probably haven’t had any decent rest in days. I won’t mention it to anyone if you don’t.”

Geralt nodded, and brought up a slightly shaky hand to rub his eyes, pressing the heels of his palms into them momentarily. It left a rather startling, reddened effect when he finally pulled them away, but Eskel just sighed.

“You know, we could have stolen some food. If you were that desperate.”

“They…already hate me, Eskel. Don’t…want to make it worse.”

“Well, then I could have stolen some food. If I pull my hood up and leave my swords, no one even knows I’m a Witcher. It’s probably because I don’t insist on travelling the Continent wearing all black and those ridiculous leather pants. I could identify you from a mile away, even with human eyesight. You’ve always been poor at blending in, Geralt.”

“Hmm.”

Eskel just chuckled and sat back, leaning his hands into the soft earth, avoiding roots where he could. 

“What say we get you up onto Roach and find somewhere a bit warmer to spend the night? I need to collect payment for that Leshen anyways. And then we can get ale, and stew, and eat until we can’t anymore.”

Geralt didn’t say anything, but a slow smile crept across his face.

“I missed you, brother. And your thieving ways.”

“And I you, Geralt.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They’re...kind of idiots. But I love them anyways. There’s not enough of Geralt and Eskel just being the best brothers and looking after each other. They make my heart happy. 
> 
> Thanks for reading! As always, your comments and kudos make my whole day.


	12. Broken

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt makes a small mistake, resulting in a small injury. Jaskier is there all the same.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am a silly goose who forgot to update yesterday! But no matter, it's here today, and I'll do my best to remain consisted (if one day behind) from now on! Please feel free to pop in with kudos or a comment, they make my day!

This wasn’t the first time something like this had happened. Far from it, in fact; when Geralt had been a boy he had constantly been getting himself into predicaments that resulted in broken bones — the tree outside his and Visenna’s cottage had been a particular culprit in this arena. At least, it had been if his memories were to be trusted. Geralt had always had a slight suspicion that Visenna might have magically altered his memories, erasing the hurtful memories and keeping the good ones so as to paint herself in a more favourable light. He tried not to entertain the though too much; Yen had checked once and found no signs of magical tampering, but that did not mean that it wasn’t there. Visenna was, after all, a healer. Surely, she could heal the signs of magical changes to Geralt’s memories with very little trouble.

Tree or no tree, Geralt never recalled breaking his bones as being a particular inconvenience. Even once he had arrived at Kaer Morhen, where broken fingers and toes were a near daily affair, they had not caused him too much trouble. Perhaps that was more because he had had no choice but to fight with his other hand, keep his weight off his foot. There had always been something to keep him occupied, keep him focused on something besides the never-ending pain that went along with being a young Witcher. Now that he was mostly alone, though, Geralt was experiencing his broken bones as a most damnable inconvenience. Not in a career-ending, needing to rest for several days type of way. It was more the small things, the things he was used to just getting up and doing, that were causing him issues. He almost felt bad for Jaskier; the man had been suffering through his foul mood for nigh on a day already and Geralt kept on feeling sure that he would simply pack up his bags and leave. 

Cursing frustratedly, Geralt finally approached the bard, every inch of his pride bristling at what he needed to ask. He hated this, hated all of it. He was meant to be solitary, meant to be able to get by without anyone else’s help. Asking for aid went against every inch of training that had been drilled into Geralt since Visenna had left him. At Kaer Morhen, young Witchers were taught that people could just as quickly turn on you as help you, and that you didn’t want to get caught in such a situation when you were too weak to fight back. Sighing, Geralt tried to push down his fight or flight reflex, knowing that if Jaskier had wanted him dead he had had more than enough opportunities to see to it already.

“Jaskier?”

The bard looked up, he was leaned back in between two outstretched roots of an oak tree, on leg stretched out and the other propped up a bit. It was an idyllic scene and he looked so very relaxed. Even the ostrich feather of his hat was waving gently in the wind, as though it were taking a rest. Clearly, their unplanned halt was doing him some good.

“What is it, Geralt? Everything alright?”

“Fine. It’s just…”

Geralt waved his comb in the air, not particularly wanting to elaborate. It was embarrassing enough that he had gone and broken his damn arm on a hunt, it was even worse that all the muscles in his back were so tight from the setting of the bone that he couldn’t even brush his own hair.

“Ah. Of course. Come here.”

Jaskier set his lute aside, making sure it was lying on a patch of grass and not in the dirt that surrounded the base of the tree, and then gestured to the spot between his legs. Geralt raised an eyebrow.

“Oh, for Melitele’s sake, I know you’re not that much of a prude. Come here, it’ll be easier for me if you’re sitting right in front of me, so I can at least see what I’m doing.”

Sighing and realizing the fight probably wasn’t worth it, Geralt eased himself down between Jaskier’s legs, catching himself with his good arm when all the muscles in his back spasmed.

“Your arm bothering you that much? Should I get you something for the pain?” The bard sounded concerned, and Geralt resisted the urge to elbow him in the ribs. His mood was far from where he wanted it to be right now, and he didn’t want or need to be pestered. He growled a bit, and Jaskier sat back, absolutely unintimidated.

“Yes, alright. You’re scary. Except you’re really not. Not when you can’t even put a brush to your hair without help.”

Geralt slumped and decided that arguing further would only worsen his mood. Jaskier’s smart, slender hands were already working their way through his scalp, and it felt absolutely heavenly. Not that he would ever say as much, but he could feel himself melting into the bard’s touch as he pulled the brush gently through Geralt’s silver hair. He sighed, tired and trying to ignore the bone deep ache in his arm.

“Your hair…it’s quite soft, you know. And curly. If you put a bit more effort into it besides ripping a brush through it every once in a while, it could be quite beautiful. Not that it’s not already, but I mean it could look, well, more civilized.”

Geralt snorted.

“Yes, I know you’ve never looked civilized a day in your life. The closest I’ve ever seen you was as a sad silk merchant at Pavetta’s betrothal feast. But I think you’d look quite fetching, all dressed up, with something done with this beautiful hair. Perhaps you’d let me sometime?”

If Jaskier had been doing anything but running the brush in such an intoxicating way through Geralt’s hair, the Witcher would have turned around and punched him. As it was, though, his eyes were closed and he was swaying sleepily as the bard kept on brushing through the knots with a gentleness almost unknown to Geralt. Most of his encounters with hairbrushes ended with a great deal of cursing and a lot of hair being pulled from his head. Besides, the pain in his arm had been keeping him from sleeping well. That was the only reason why he felt so tired. Perhaps, when Jaskier was finished with the brush, he could lean back and sleep, just for a bit. The bard had clever hands; maybe he would run them through Geralt’s hair while he rested. Jaskier never gave up an opportunity to make a fuss over Geralt, particularly when he was injured.

When Geralt jolted awake, it was dark, and he scrambled upright, making the mistake of using both arms in his headlong dash to discover how he had managed to sleep the whole afternoon away. The moment his broken arm shifted, he groaned with pain and sank back, stars dancing in front of his eyes. His head collided with something soft, and there was a confused, sleepy huff.

“Mmm…what time’sit? Oh. Great goddess! Fuck, Geralt, what in Melitele’s name are you doing?”

Geralt was breathing very deeply through his nose to keep from groaning in agony, but he wasn’t about to admit that to the bard, so he gritted his teeth and collected himself.

“Wondering why you let me sleep for so long. Fuck’s sake, we should have left hours ago.”

“And done what, pray tell? With your arm in that state, you won’t be taking contracts for a week at least. And this is a lovely spot. Why not stop and enjoy it for a while? It’ll keep you from pushing yourself too hard.”

Geralt, propped on his good arm and glaring daggers at Jaskier, realized that his hair had flipped in his sleep and was now hanging half over his face. He blew it out of the way, trying to retain some of his dignity; they had established long ago that the bard was not frightened by his glaring and growling.

“Dammit, we need to move on. We can’t just…stay in one place.”

“Why not?”

Geralt slumped a bit, too tired to have this particular conversation at the moment. His arm throbbed anew, the pain antagonized by his misuse of it when he had woken.

“I’m tired, bard. We’ll talk tomorrow.”

It was dark, but Geralt’s eyes had adjusted almost instantly, and he saw the worry pass across Jaskier’s face.

“Your arm really is bothering you, isn’t it? Come here, let me take a look.”

The Witcher shuffled sideways a little, realizing awkwardly that he had fallen asleep between Jaskier’s legs, and that the tingling numbness on his face was from where he had pressed it into the bard’s silk doublet. He stared at the ground, feeling relieved his cheeks would not show the colour of his embarrassment. Jaskier carefully put his hands on Geralt’s arm, and gently untied the sling and unwrapped the bandages he had put there himself only the day before. He tutted in disapproval the moment the arm was exposed. Geralt shivered. The night air was cool, and he could feel the hairs on his newly exposed flesh standing on end. Somewhere, a cricket chirped.

“This looks so sore, Geralt. Why didn’t you say anything? I can get you something for the pain, you know. It’s not breaking some unspoken law to make yourself more comfortable.”

Geralt turned his head, wondering how bad it was if Jaskier could see worrying damage even in the dark, and immediately he understood why the bard thought it looked sore. The whole arm, from wrist to elbow, was a patchwork of mottled bruises, varying in colour from greenish red to deep purple, nearly black. The elbow to wrist section, which had been broken the worst, was swollen so much that Geralt’s skin reminded him of a gruesome, overstuffed sausage. Jaskier cleared his throat, disapproval clear.

“It might…be a bit sore. The second day is always the worst for bruising.”

“Like I said, there’s nothing criminal about asking for help. Despite all your efforts to prove otherwise. Now, would you like poppy’s milk, or just some willow bark tea?”

Jaskier rose, leaving Geralt feeling oddly bereft. His body heat had radiated outwards, and now the Witcher was alone in the night air, his arm still left without bandages, feeling rather cold and exposed. There was some rustling as the bard gathered wood for a fire, and Geralt shook himself. Perhaps it was just the pain talking.

“Willow bark.”

“Are you sure? You know that won’t help you sleep.”

Geralt shrugged his good shoulder, and worked his fingers along the bandage, trying to find the end. Jaskier took a few steps over and laid a hand on his.

“Leave it for a bit. Just sit back, try and relax. It’ll be good to let it get some blood flow back before we wrap it for the night.”

Geralt found himself being pushed back against the tree previously occupied by Jaskier. At some point, the bard had managed to start a fire, and the light of it was casting ghoulish shadows about the clearing. Ever alert for danger, Geralt couldn’t help but wish his swords were nearer. Every shadow looked to him to be a rotfiend, dragging its stinking, corpselike body into the vicinity of their camp. The shadows that did not look like rotfiends took on the shapes of a million other horrors that Geralt had fought. He shivered again, subconsciously, and found that Jaskier was pulling a blanket up to his chin, stopping only to palm the back of his forehead, feeling for fever.

“You’re awfully clammy. Should I be more concerned than I already am?”

Geralt’s shoulder’s trembled again, and he blinked, snapping his focus onto Jaskier’s face instead of the multitude of demons that occupied his peripheral vision.

“I’m fine. Might be a bit of shock.”

“This long after the injury?”

“The body can be unpredictable.”

Jaskier nodded and palmed Geralt’s forehead again, and the Witcher gave him a look.

“Expecting something to have changed?”

“I’m ever optimistic, Geralt. Oh! Our water’s boiled. Give me a moment and I’ll bring you some nice tea.”

Geralt sighed and leaned back against the tree. Its roots flared out near the ground, making him feel as though he were sinking into the very trunk itself, being enveloped by long arms. The jutting edges of the trunk also made for a convenient headrest, and Geralt leaned into one, feeling inexplicably exhausted. To be fair, he had travelled nearly nonstop for nigh on three months now; perhaps this was simply his body’s way of telling him when enough was enough. He shivered tiredly, letting his eyes drift shut.

“Geralt? Tea’s ready. Are you asleep?”

“Mmm…not anymore.”

The Witcher extended an arm from under the blanket to accept the mug, and breathed heavily, relieved when its warmth seeped into his palm. There was a chill on the breeze, a sure sign that the air was turning. Briefly, Geralt considered if it was time for him to turn North, towards Kaedwen. No, he decided, a few more weeks spend travelling with Jaskier couldn’t hurt. The leaves hadn’t started morphing from green to yellow yet. He had time. 

He opened his eyes to find the bard staring at him with an intent, concerned look on his face.

“You aright?”

“Hmm. Thinking.”

“About?”

“When I should turn towards Kaer Morhen. The days are starting to get shorter.”

“Ah.”

Geralt might have imagined it, but he thought he detected a note of melancholy in Jaskier’s voice. The bard turned away quickly, before he could get a proper look at the man’s face. Jaskier’s mood always turned a bit in the fall, when they started making their way towards Kaedwen. He claimed he didn’t like the fall, that the chill disagreed with his bones and that the long trek back to Oxenfurt for the winter months wore him down. This response had always confused Geralt, for even he couldn’t help but enjoy the fall, the way the leaves fluoresced before fluttering down to the earth. And Geralt was no poet, no great lover of life’s beauties. Of all the people he knew, Jaskier was the one Geralt had expected to love the fall the most. The fact that he did not bemused the Witcher, but he had not given it any more thought until he found himself shivering and exhausted, leaning against a tree and nursing a broken arm.

Jaskier sank to the ground a good distance from Geralt, and guzzled down his tea in two great sips. He exhaled deeply, leaning his face back. Geralt noticed the way his hair caught the moonlight, making it look strangely silver, and he shook himself. He was truly becoming poetic in his old age.

Geralt took considerably longer to finish his tea, mostly because he was revelling in the warmth of it. When he was almost finished, he was becoming very drowsy, nodding off and having to jolt himself upright. Jaskier stood and approached him gently, praising the mug out of his pliable fingers.

“Perhaps we should retire for the night?” Geralt had to smile at his courtly tone, full of frills and bells and whistles that suited the bard so well. He nodded. Jaskier settled next to him and picked up the bandage.

“If you don’t mind lending me your arm?”

“Hmm.”

Geralt held out his arm as much as he was able, wincing as the muscles in his back pulled taut, sore and stiff. Starting at his hand, Jaskier slowly wrapped the bandage all the way up, then doubled back at his shoulder and worked his way back down. It ached, when the bard pulled the bandages tight against his skin, but Geralt bore it, knowing that wincing would do him no good and would simply make Jaskier concerned. When the bard was finished, he knotted the makeshift sling, fashioned out of an old shirt, behind Geralt’s neck, pulling his hair out of the way of the knot. He settled the broken limb in its cradle, and Geralt sighed at the support. Even leaving the broken appendage lying in his lap for a few hours had been extremely painful, and he was very tired. Tired of the bone-deep agony in his arm. Tired of seeing monsters everywhere he looked. Perhaps he could retire to the keep early this year. It had been a long summer.

“Hey, Geralt, you can’t fall asleep here. You’ve had a back ache all day, and don’t tell me you haven’t. Sleeping leaned up against a tree won’t do you any favours, I assure you.”

Geralt blinked tiredly, not bothering to adjust his pupils for the low light anymore. It didn’t matter, he could navigate on smell and sound alone. And Jaskier was taking the blanket off his lap, tugging him to his feet, guiding him. It seemed he wouldn’t need to navigate at all. 

“Just a little further, and then you can sleep, I promise. You’ve done so well. I know you’re tired.”

Confused, Geralt raised his head, not realizing he had let it drop. Whoever was praising him had got it all wrong. Here he was, stumbling about his camp like a blind idiot when he should be riding, finding contracts. Who knew how many people were dying because he had been stupid and gotten his arm broken? He sighed.

Before he was really aware of what was happening, he was being lowered onto the ground, covered in a grey blanket that bore a scent that was not his own.

“What’s this?” He plucked at the thing; the weave was too thick and expensive. He never would have spent such money on a blanket; after all, he very rarely got cold enough to truly need one. Mostly, Geralt used one so he wouldn’t look any more inhuman than he already did. 

“It’s my blanket. Come off it Geralt, you’re shivering so hard I can hear your teeth clattering. And even though it’s just shock, I don’t want you dying of it in the middle of the night. I’ve a good coat to keep me warm.”

Ah. Jaskier. He was still here. It was strange, Geralt reflected, the way the bard seemed to anticipate his questions before he even had a chance to ask them. Geralt wondered if he was really that formulaic.

“Hmm.”

“Is your arm still sore? Do you need anything else? If not, I’m just going to go put out the fire, and then I’ll be right back, so you can give me a poke in the night if you want, alright?”

Geralt blinked.

“‘M fine. Go.”

He waved his hand in the air, and Jaskier raised his eyebrows. In retrospect, Geralt realized his gestures were probably slow, making him look a bit drunk. He figured he should probably clarify.

“‘M not drunk. Go. Before we burn the forest down.”

Jaskier snorted.

“Gods, you must be more tired than I thought. Remind me not to let you take that many contracts in a row again, yeah? You look half dead, and you can’t say this is just from a few broken bones.”

“Alright.”

“Good.”

Geralt heard Jaskier’s boots crunching on the first autumn leaves, and the hissing noise as he poured water on the fire. Breathing in, the Witcher could smell the steam, thick and heady and smelling of birchbark. He closed his eyes and inhaled, enjoying the warmth and the fact that he wasn’t the one who had to put the fire out. It would’ve been nearly impossible with his arm and back in this state. It was a good thing the bard was here. And that he was strong enough to lift a bucket of water. You wouldn’t know it, to look at him.

Jaskier crunched back over after a few moments, and Geralt could hear him dragging his bedroll across the grassy ground, and lying down with a soft grunt, sighing as he stretched. They had slept out under the stars for so many nights together now, Geralt could predict what he would do next, even if he was too tired to do so at the moment.

“You awake?” Jaskier’s voice was nearly silent, not wanting to waken him if he had already drifted off.

“Mmm.”

“You’ll tell me if you need anything, yeah? No more pretending you don’t need willow bark or that you’re not sore. It just makes me worry more, you know. And you’re so tired, you could use a good long rest.”

“Mmm.”

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

Geralt blinked his eyes a few times, watching as the stars he could see through the spidery canopy of trees swam in and out of focus. He found it fascinating, and blinked a few times more, shaking his head to clear his vision properly. Jaskier shifted a bit at the noise, propping himself on an elbow, leaning over to check on Geralt. He stilled, not wanting to worry the bard. There were downsides to having a travelling companion, he supposed. Though he was too tired to reflect on the specifics at the moment.

“Goodnight, Geralt. Go to sleep.”

“‘Night, bard.”


	13. Protector II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A companion piece to [Protector](%E2%80%9C) by Humbae, so please go read that first or this won’t make any sense! This was so much fun to write (and kind of neat to finish my own prompt) so I really hope you enjoy! Also thanks to Humbae for betaing this chapter, you’re amazing <3

In order to calm his nerves, Jaskier eventually eased Geralt down onto the floor, leaving him with a folded doublet and cloak by way of a pillow, to ease his breathing. The bard built up the fire, bringing the logs over one at a time, simply as a way to pass the time. He was still hoping, he supposed, that if he simply kept the fire going for long enough, if he could just keep this damned place warm, Geralt would eventually revive on his own. Witchers were tough, he told himself. And Geralt had always come back from whatever horrendous injuries Jaskier had helped him through in the past. But every time the bard stopped his monotonous work, paused in his trail from the wood pile to the fireplace, Geralt looked worse. His face had taken on a deathly white pallor, and his lips were blue. Every breath rasped and sounded like a struggle, and he shivered and sweated alternately as fever ripped through his body. And through it all, Jaskier had no idea what to do. No idea how to help him or even where to begin. There was water in his lungs, that much was clear. When they had stepped through the portal, Geralt had probably (understandably) been expecting to arrive with fresh air to breathe on the other side. And, from his own experience with portals, Jaskier knew that the first thing you wanted to do when you stepped out of a portal was take a great gasp of air. Unfortunately, where Geralt had been expecting air, there had been water instead. And now his lungs were probably full of freezing, dirty lake water. His coughs were rasping and harsh, and every breath seemed to flutter and vibrate in his chest, in a way that reminded Jaskier of his own experience with a bad case of the flu. Flu which had nearly killed him. He shook his head, trying not to think of it. Geralt didn’t have the flu. He had water in his lungs, and surely, there was a way to treat such an affliction. If only he could remember it.

Sighing, Jaskier realized he had achieved nothing in his obsessive wood moving except mostly smothering the fire, which was now belching smoke. Desperately, he took his shirt off the back of the chair where he had thrown it, and fanned the smoke aggressively, shuddering to thing what would happen if it got into Geralt’s already damaged lungs. Once most of the smoke had vanished up the chimney, Jaskier poked the excess logs off the fire, allowing them to roll onto the stone floor in front of the heart. He sighed. If nearly drowning in a frozen lake didn’t kill Geralt, he would. He felt supremely stupid for allowing things to get this bad. He should have checked Geralt for a fever the moment they had stumbled into the cabin. Now, the Witcher was ill, weakened, and they had no way of getting help. And the bard, while he was fairly skilled at stitching wounds and wrapping bandages, knew next to nothing about how to treat such ailments. Visions of his little cousin, her lips flushed blue and her nail beds pale, flashed before his eyes. He couldn’t let that happen to Geralt. He couldn’t just sit back and watch the man die.

Sighing hopelessly, Jaskier walked on his knees back across the barren cabin, and stroked a bit of hair out of Geralt’s face. The Witcher stirred, murmuring something under his breath. His eyes travelled a bit beneath closed lids.

“What’s got you bothered, hmm?” Jaskier stroked his hair some more, hoping it would wake him gently. He could see the telltale signs of a nightmare developing, and knew it was the last thing Geralt needed. He patted the Witcher’s cheek a little more roughly, trying to ignore the bright red spots developing high on his pale cheekbones, as well as the heat that radiated from his face. Geralt blinked then, eyebrows creased and golden eyes hazy, looking desperately ill and very confused.

“Welcome back,” Jaskier smiled gently, trying to keep the fearful tremble from his voice, “You looked bothered, so I thought it’d be best to wake you. How’re you feeling?”

Geralt grimaced, and Jaskier could see his jaw and throat working as he tried to swallow. The bard wished he had some water to offer, but their water skins had been drained during the heat of the last contract. He wanted to smack himself for not melting some snow over the fire sooner.

“I’ll get some water soon, don’t worry. Just let me know if there’s anything you need, alright? I can’t help you get better if I don’t know what’s wrong.”

Jaskier refrained from mentioning that he already knew what was wrong; that Geralt had a case of delayed drowning, and that there was absolutely nothing he could do about it at the moment. It was a fact he was unwilling to face for the time being. 

“I’m tired, bard…and my chest is sore.”

At least Geralt’s teeth were no longer chattering so much that Jaskier could hardly understand him. He rubbed a comforting hand up and down the Witcher’s muscular chest, feeling the fluttering breaths beneath his palm.

“I know. I’ll get some water boiling; I’m sure a little tea will help your chest and throat feel better. You just try and rest, alright? I’ll look after the rest.”

Normally, such a statement would have been met with violent protestations that Geralt was fine, that he could look after himself, but this time the Witcher simply nodded tiredly, his eyelids already drifting shut again.

“Mhmm…”

“Good.”

Jaskier had turned away and was about to slip on some clothes to exit the cabin when he heard Geralt shifting about again. He turned, his heart immediately shattered to see how ill the Witcher looked.

“You sure you’ll be alright?”

Geralt lifted his head and coughed a few times, covering it clumsily with a hand that was shaking far too much.

“Jask…there’s something wrong,” he was panting, and the bard could hear the rattling in his breaths even more plainly now that he was speaking again, “…something wrong with my lungs. They feel…damp.”

The look that Geralt fixed on Jaskier was even more heartbreaking. It was half fearful, half pleading. He looked so out of his depth, hands twisting anxiously as sweat poured off his body and his breaths shuddered in and out of his gasping mouth. Jaskier had to remind himself that Witchers rarely got sick. It could have been decades since Geralt had felt this way. That was, assuming he even remembered what it was like. No wonder he was nervous. Slipping on his shirt, the bard palmed his forehead gently.

“You’re alright. Just a bit sick. You’ll be back on your feet in no time, you’ll see.”

It hurt Jaskier to lie to Geralt like this, but he felt he had no choice. The Witcher looked in no fit state to hear bad news, and even if he was, the fact that Jaskier had no idea what to do for his friend was his responsibility, not Geralt’s. Geralt sighed tiredly and leaned a bit into the bard’s touch. Jaskier figured it must be warm and pleasant on his feverish skin.

“I’ll be right back, alright? I’m just going to go get some snow to melt for tea.”

Geralt already appeared to have fallen back asleep, though his breathing was still shaky and uneven. Arming himself with a small pot that had been lucky enough to survive the portal in Jaskier’s pack, the bard stepped outside, bracing himself for the icy blast he knew was coming. 

Outside, the snow sparkled magnificently. The sun caught each snowflake individually, creating a dizzying myriad of reflection, from the ground to the trees, whose boughs were weighed down by heavy caps of snow. Jaskier had to blink a few times to get his eyes to adjust; his vision flashing blue and green as he did so. Having grown up in Lettenhove, he was all to aware of the dangers of snow blindness, but spending a few moments outside wouldn’t put him in any immediate danger. Sighing, Jaskier got about his task, cursing his lack of gloves as his pale, delicate hands fumbled about numbly trying to scoop snow into the bowl. He would have given a great number of his finest possessions for a warm coat. And a blanket, for Geralt. They were likely to freeze out here, especially when the wood for the fire ran out. The cabin was not equipped with an axe which they could use to cut more. Perhaps Geralt would sacrifice one of his swords to the task. In their current state, he wouldn’t have a choice.

So focused was he on gathering the snow with minimal damage to his lutist’s hands, Jaskier barely noticed the jay’s alarm call in the tree overhead. When he finally looked up, more irritated than anything, the little bird was screeching consistently, its grey feathers puffed up with almost comical rage. The bard sighed, thinking it was calling at him, and was about to turn about when he caught the faintest sound, carried on the pristine wind. He turned, heart hammering, and listened. The bird continued to call, and Jaskier had to resist the urge to silence it with a well-aimed stick. Yes, there it was again. The sound of something taking measured steps, panting and slogging against the snow. Jaskier nearly dropped the bowl. The breathing sounded humanoid. 

With barely a moment’s though for his own wellbeing, Jaskier leapt out into the undisturbed snow, needing to jump to work his way through its depth. He probably looked utterly ridiculous, but he didn’t care. There was someone out there. And a person travelling so far into the mountains at such a time of year was either mad, or well prepared. Well prepared, Jaskier knew from experience, meant healing supplies.

“Hey! Please stop! I…I need help! My friend, he’s sick!”

The footsteps stopped, and Jaskier suddenly found himself on the sharp end of a very wicked looking dagger. He gasped, raising his hands, taking a stumbling step back only to have his back collide with a tree. The person in question was wrapped heavily in furs, the same dark grey as the tree bark, and had been so well concealed that Jaskier had entirely missed them. 

“I…I won’t hurt you. I’m not even armed. Just, please, I need your help.”

The person studied him for a minute, although Jaskier couldn’t catch a glimpse of their face, concealed by a hood. They reminded him a bit of Geralt, they fierce mannerisms, the hood pulled low as though they were trying to avoid identification.

Suddenly, the knife retracted, disappearing up the person’s sleeve. Jaskier blinked, surprised, and the next thing he knew the hood had been removed. He gaped.

“Ah! You’re…well..oh.”

The woman had icy blue eyes, so pale they looked half grey. Her cheeks were reddened from the cold, and marred by a series of scars that looked like pockmarks, from a childhood illness. Her hair was wild, pulled back from her head and braided messily, the tail end of it disappearing under her furs. Something about the expression in her eyes left Jaskier feeling like she was half wild; there was a disconnect in her face that looked wolfish, predatory. He gulped.

“Um, on second thought, maybe you’ve got some healing supplies I could just…well…borrow? I don’t want to inconvenience you. You clearly have somewhere you need to be, and I, ah…”

“Shut up.”

“Yes.”

The woman approached him, leaning inwards, her head cocked sideways in a way that Jaskier could only describe as being birdlike. He shuddered. She sniffed, nostrils flaring. They were dripping with icy snot, he realized. He wondered how long she had been out here, wandering the wilds. Something told him he didn’t want to know.

“You smell…like lake.”

“Ah, well, that might have something to do with my friend. He fell into the lake, you see, and now he’s very sick. Hence my need for those healing supplies.”

“Show me to him.”

“Yes. Alright. Do you…um, have a name?”

The woman rounded on him far too quickly, her head cocked at that unnatural angle again. She blinked twice, in rapid succession.

“Yrsa. My name is Yrsa.”

Jaskier tried to refrain from simply turning and running back to the cabin. He didn’t speak much Elder, but he knew this word. It meant “wild”, and was a derogatory term given by the elves to daughters who ran off, who sequestered themselves in the woods instead of living with their families. Most Yrsa went mad, he had read. They became more a part of the forest than individual beings. Whatever this woman’s name had been, she was clearly one of them. He tried to catch a glimpse of her ears, to see if she was truly elven, but they were hidden by her messy hair. Jaskier had never heard of an Yrsa killing anyone, but perhaps that was simply because they very rarely encountered other people. This woman certainly looked willing and able to kill him without a second thought.

She led the way back to the cabin, following Jaskier’s bounding footprints that he had made on the way out with a wolflike grace. She would stop occasionally, and scent the air. As they got closer to the cabin, she stopped so suddenly that Jaskier nearly smacked into her fur-clad back.

“It smells…sick here.”

The bard nodded, though he sniffed the air and hadn’t the faintest idea what she was talking about. The air smelled cold to him. It burnt the inside of his nostrils; he could feel his snot congealed and freezing uncomfortably. He wiggled his nose a bit, trying to dislodge it, but to no avail.

Yrsa continued on, slinking up to the cabin door, and throwing it open with such reckless abandon that Jaskier was afraid that the hinges would simply break off, leaving himself and Geralt exposed to the elements.

“Careful!”

She breathed heavily, inhaling the air inside the cabin, and then tromped inside, her large boots leaving snowy tracks on the floor. Peering around her, Jaskier saw that Geralt was fast asleep, breathing laboriously. He was surprised and concerned that Yrsa’s entrance hadn’t woken him. Normally, the slightest disturbance in the air had him on his feet, knife in hand. All this felt…unnatural. And Jaskier hated it. Hated that he could do nothing but leave Geralt to the whims of this woman, who seemed more wolf than human and whom he had barely known for twenty minutes.

Yrsa had dumped her pack on the floor and was unlacing her boots and coat. She left it all heaped in a pile near the door, melting snow dripping off her boots and creating a large, steaming puddle. Underneath her furs, she wore dark leggings and a blue shirt that looked handwoven. It had small flowery embroidered around the neckline. Jaskier wondered who had put in the time and effort to do such a thing for her.

“What happened to him?” Yrsa gestured vaguely with her head while digging through her pack, which was made of animal skins that had been sewn together. Jaskier could see a few tails, as well as some paws and snouts, dangling off the bag. He shuddered. 

“We were in a portal, and something went wrong. He ended up falling into the middle of the lake. When we got here, he was half frozen, and I didn’t notice until later that he was running a fever. I think he must have breathed in some water…he’s drowning. Slowly. I have seen it happen before.”

Geralt stirred fitfully, a weak cough escaping his parted lips. Jaskier winced. His coughs sounded even worse; rough and hoarse and very painful. Yrsa looked at him, and her nearly nonexistent eyebrows pursed together with concern.

“I have seen this before as well. The water gets in the lungs, and the person drowns over many days. His blue lips and fingers, his fever, it is his body trying to fight because he cannot breathe in enough to keep himself alive.”

For the first time, Jaskier noticed her strange, lilting accent, one that he had never heard before. Whatever language she had learnt as a babe, it was not the common tongue. Her voice sounded rough as well, as though she had not used it for a long time. 

“So…can you help him?” The bard had serious doubts about employing some strange mountain woman to make sure Geralt was alright. However, he was out of better options at the moment.

“He needs to cough up the water in his lungs. I can give him a herb which will help him with this, but he will need someone to stay with him. I assume you are willing and able to do that?”

“Yes. Of course.”

Yrsa nodded, and after a few more moments rifling about in her pack, she surfaced with a small pouch, made out of animal skin. Pouring a bit of its contents into her hand, she pulled her shirt up over her face.

“Cover your mouth, unless you also wish to spent the night coughing and ill.”

Hastily, Jaskier pulled up his shirt, and watched as Yrsa crushed the herbs in the palm of her hand and rolled them about a few times, before depositing them into a small bowl that looked to be made of bone. Jaskier was almost afraid to wonder where the bones had come from. 

Yrsa stomped outside for a moment, and returned with a handful of snow, which she blew on with pale lips until it had melted. Then, she let it dribble between her fingers into the bone bowl, murmuring to herself as she used some sort of pestle to crush the mixture together into a liquid. Even through his shirt, Jaskier could smell a strong aroma, heavy and minty, that filled the air. His lungs heaved, rebelling against it, and he shuddered at what Geralt would probably have to go through, being exposed directly to it.

Once she was finished mixing together the herb and the cold water, Yrsa sat cross-legged on the floor next to Geralt, and without bothering to wake him or explain what she was doing, poured the mixture down his throat. The result was violent; he came to all at once, heaving and choking, eyes wide and alarmed. Jaskier rushed to his other side and held his arm.

“You’re fine, you’re fine. Just calm down. Yrsa here is just giving you something to help you cough the water out of your lungs, and she didn’t bother to tell you what she was doing first.”

Jaskier shot the woman a pointed glare here, but she appraised him with an even gaze, seemingly unperturbed by his ire. Geralt heaved, trying to regain control of his breathing, but he seemed unable to. His coughing continued on, harsh and rasping. Yrsa stood, looked him over, and nodded.

“It seems my work here is done.” She stated calmly, over the noise of Geralt’s breathless coughs. Turning to the door, she yanked on her boots and fur coat again, shouldering her pack.

“Wait!”

Yrsa turned, cold blue eyes penetrating deep into Jaskier’s with a gaze that seemed far older than her body, far more knowledgeable. It was as though she held more than just her own thoughts in those eyes. There was a whole forest’s worth of knowledge tucked away there, wild and forbidding. 

“What happens if this doesn’t help him? If he gets worse?”

“He will either recover or he will die. I have done all I can. All anyone could do.”

Jaskier gaped at her for a second, but something in her face changed, and for a moment his mind went blank. When he came to again, still holding Geralt, he trusted Yrsa completely. Trusted that whatever she had done would work. She was still staring at him inscrutably.

“There is a…settlement. Two days’ walk from here. When he is well enough to no longer be vomiting and coughing, take him there. They will give you any more help you need. Follow the valley. You cannot miss the road.”

“Alright. I will. Is there…anything you need? Any way I should pay you for your help?”

“To be in the presence of the White Wolf is payment enough.”

Before Jaskier could respond to that comment, Yrsa had turned in a flurry of pale hair and furs, and slammed the door behind her. He could hear her footsteps crunching away through the snow, out into the night, and he suppressed a sudden chill that came over him. It was not a chill from the night air let in at the opening of the door. Yrsa had known. Known Geralt. Whoever she was, the bard sensed that he would probably never see her again. But that she knew far more than she had let on. He shuddered. Best to let her go, into the night. Her kind were fearless, extensions of the land itself. Jaskier got the sense that she would be watching, making sure they made it to the village safely. He tried to take comfort in the thought instead of being utterly terrified by it. 

Geralt coughed and heaved again, and suddenly Jaskier’s attention was fully back on the Witcher again, rubbing his back concernedly as Geralt forced his tired eyes open. They were glazed and exhausted, but clearer than they had looked earlier that day.

“Jask?”

“One and the same. I expect you’re feeling fairly horrible. Do you need me to get you anything while this works its way through your system?”

“A bucket.”

“Ah.”

Jaskier stood, and found a convenient wooden pail in the corner of the cabin, probably meant for hauling water with which to put out the fire. Geralt was swallowing convulsively, so loudly the bard could hear it all the way across the small room. He rushed back to his friend’s side, concerned.

“You’re going to be just fine. We just need to get this water out of your lungs, alright? Just try to rest as much as you can, it’ll all be over soon.”

Seemingly unable to hold onto any notion of his normal stoicism, Geralt collapsed bonelessly into Jaskier’s shoulder, his breath hot on the bard’s neck. Jaskier wrapped an arm around his back, rubbing the muscles he could feel trembling there. Geralt blinked up at him blearily, leaning heavily against him.

“’S nice…Gods, ‘m sick.”

“I know. I’ve got you.”

Geralt nodded and nuzzled into Jaskier’s neck. The bard told himself it was just for warmth, but as he rubbed the Witcher’s back and held him through spasming coughs, he couldn’t help but hope it was also because Geralt enjoyed his company. That, on some level, Geralt felt he could seek comfort here. Jaskier could only hope his meagre comfort sufficed.

It was in the small hours of the morning, when the first rays of chill air were beginning to pierce the frosty windows, that Geralt finally began to vomit up lake water. It was a gruesome affair; he was too weak to hold himself up and eventually Jaskier propped the Witcher against his shoulder, holding the bucket in his lap while water dribbled down Geralt’s chin. There were dark bags under his eyes, his breathing was laboured, and he looked an absolute state. And through it all, Jaskier could do nothing but hold him, rub his back gently, tell him it was going to be alright even though he was truly beginning to fear Yrsa had poisoned the other man. 

At some point, when Geralt had a bit of a respite, he placed a trembling hand on Jaskier’s collarbone, which had become exposed at some point during the long night. The bard looked down, surprised.

“Are you quite alright?”

“Jaskier…you stayed.”

Geralt looked very confused. His hair was mussed and sweaty, more grey than silver. A sickly pallor had taken over his complexion, and his voice was nearly gone from all the coughing and vomiting.

“Of course I did. What, were you expecting me to wander out into the cold and leave you here to die?”

“…Yes. ’S practical. Save yourself.”

Jaskier had to repel a strong urge to smack Geralt. After all the years, and many similar conversations, the man still thought Jaskier would simply up and leave at the first sign of trouble.

“You know I’m not like that. Now stop trying to talk. Your throat’s in a right state. I expect it’ll be a few days before you can speak again.”

The bard felt, more than saw, Geralt’s nod. It was tiny, shaking, pressed up against his shoulder. He held Geralt to him, heart rending in two to see how weakened the other man had become. If he had been anything other than a Witcher, Jaskier had no doubt that he would have died long ago. Perhaps before he had even pulled himself from the lake’s icy waters.

“Potions…”

“Ah. Yes. They shattered, I think, when you landed in the water. The sudden change in temperature probably wreaked havoc on the glass. I’m sorry, but you’re going to have to ride this out the old fashioned way.”

“Figures…”

“Yes, it does. Now, I meant what I said about not talking. Be quiet and rest.”

Geralt sighed sleepily, and nestled further into the bard’s grip. Jaskier was leaning back against the wall, within arm’s reach of the woodpile. He had taken to simply hurling logs at the fire, hoping they met their mark. The blaze was well-established enough by now that he didn’t need to worry overly much about destroying the structural integrity of the fire. 

Just when Jaskier was beginning to feel hopeful that Geralt would manage to get some rest, he jerked violently, coughing and choking. Acting purely on reflex, Jaskier shoved the bucket into his arms. Geralt’s head was bent almost double, nearly touching the bucket’s rim. He groaned, and Jaskier held his hair out of his face.

“That’s it,” he murmured, knowing that Geralt would likely have slapped him had he been more coherent, “You’re alright. I’ve got you.”

Geralt spat a little more water and bile into the bucket. Relieved, Jaskier pulled it away. Things seemed to be improving. Hours ago, Geralt had been positively spewing water; now it was no more than a trickle. A small thing to be pleased with, but it would have to do.

“Think you’re finished with this for the moment?” Jaskier gestured at the bucket. Geralt nodded again, a tiny gesture.

“Alright. Come here and try to get some sleep. Your breathing sounds much better, you know.”

Geralt opened his mouth as if to respond, but his voice appeared to have completely abandoned him, leaving him with nothing more than a weak rasping noise. He winced.

“That’s as I thought. Just rest. I’m sure you’ll feel better in the morning. We’ve just got to wait for that fever to break now.”

Geralt curled more tightly against Jaskier, his breathing coming more evenly than it had since they had first found themselves in the gods-forsaken place. Sighing with relief, Jaskier laid his head on top of the Witcher’s and closed his eyes, wrapping his arms around Geralt’s shivering frame. It seemed the worst was finally behind them.

\----

Jaskier woke with a start, and noticed that there was now full sunlight streaming in through the cabin’s one window. It had melted away all the frost, which had pooled on the sill and was dripping onto the floor. The monotonous dripping sound was probably what had woken him in the first place. He sighed, rolled out an aching shoulder, and smiled a bit when he saw that Geralt was still nestled tightly against him. He looked far better; still pale, but the fever-bright spots on his cheeks were gone, and the bags under his eyes had diminished a bit. Putting a palm to the Witcher’s forehead, Jaskier was also pleased to discover that his fever was nearly gone; he barely felt warm.

Not wanting to bother Geralt, Jaskier leaned back, trying to keep as still as possible. Geralt shifted a bit in his sleep, frowned, and opened his eyes, and the bard wanted to curse.

“Fuck. Sorry. Go back to sleep, it’s just me.”

Geralt opened his mouth, some smart retort probably on the tip of his tongue, but all that came out of his mouth was a rough, whispering croak. He winced, and Jaskier sighed, running a hand through the Witcher’s silvery hair.

“You’ve lost your voice. Continuous vomiting and coughing will do that to you. Don’t try to talk. I’ll get you some water, alright? Just lean back, there you go.”

Jaskier eased Geralt gently down to the floor, pillowing his head with the Witcher’s now dry shirt, and collected a bit of melted snow from a small bowl next to the fire. He returned, and wrapped his fingers around Geralt’s trembling ones when he proved to be too shaky to hold the bowl himself.

“You feeling alright?”

Geralt nodded tiredly. His cheeks looked a bit red, but Jaskier knew he couldn’t truly blush, and brushed it off as residual effects from his fever.

“Just spend today trying to rest, alright? Tomorrow, when you’ve got a bit of strength back, we can try to make it down to a village that’s at the end of this valley. I was assured we would be well looked after if we went there, so don’t you worry about a thing. Just focus on resting and getting well again, and when you are, we’ll hunt down that mage and I’ll string him up myself for putting us in such a predicament.”

Geralt snorted and gave a small smile, his eyes drifting shut a bit. Jaskier brushed a stray hair out of his face and set the bowl on the floor.

“That’s it. Just go to sleep. I’m not going anywhere.”


	14. Smoke

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt experiences unexpected kindness, and meets an enigmatic captain of the guard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AHHHH this one was so hard to write, you guys! I feel like I need to continue it, to be honest. I'm curious to see where the characters I introduced in this story end up going. So...if that's something you'd like to see at some point in the future, please let me know!!
> 
> As always, comments and kudos feed the author's soul :)

Even hours after he had escaped the flames, Geralt’s lungs still felt as though they were full of fumes. He wanted to curse, but he knew there was nothing and no one to curse at but himself and his own stupidity. Taking on a leshen alone was a risky task, and not one to be approached lightly. And yet, when he had seen the notice posted outside some small town in the middle of nowhere, he had all too eagerly ridden off to hunt down the beast, heedless of the consequences. Rash, yes. But he needed the coin. It had been a long few weeks since he had had anything decent to eat, and anything besides musty spring water to drink. He was exhausted, and the tiredness had gone straight to his head. Making him think he could take on a leshen on his own in such a state. Idiotic. Foolish. Vesemir would have rapped him upside the head for making such an error. He was lucky to be alive.

Being creatures borne of the wood and the forest that surrounded them, leshen were, in theory, easy enough to kill. They had a fatal weakness, one which a Witcher was all too prepared to capitalize on. They burned like kindling, burst into flame as soon as Igni so much as touched them. The problem was getting them within one’s eyesight, let alone creating an Igni sign strong enough to reach them. Forest spirits always had legions of wolves, vines, and mushrooms willing to do their bidding. By the time Geralt had actually faced the leshen, he had been exhausted. Not too exhausted to set the thing ablaze. But once he had cast Igni, he had simply fallen where he stood, staring up at the sky and the torrent of black smoke that drifted ever upwards, blotting out the stars. Bits of the leshen had broken off its corpse and fallen around him, burning embers that had caused him to sweat and choke, but not given him the willpower to move. Geralt had no idea how long he had laid there, staring at the blackened sky, surrounded by burning pieces of his fallen quarry. Only that it was long enough that the smoke had gotten into his lungs, taken up residence there with a burning, scratching vengeance. And now that he could walk again, he was stumbling through the forest, choking and miserable. He had left Roach with the captain of the town’s guard, who had seemed a trustworthy man. Another stupid mistake. His legs could barely support him, and he wasn’t getting even half the oxygen he needed. But he had no choice but to continue on. After all, Roach needed him. She would never be content as a soldier’s horse.

Geralt coughed, feeling some foul substance in his lungs shift a bit. Surely, that was a good sign. First it would shift, then he would spend a miserable night coughing it all up, and then he would be well again, and several hundred orens wealthier. Perhaps the captain of the guard would add on a few hundred more, seeing as he had suffered an injury, however inconsequential. Probably not. But one could always hope. The man had seemed reasonable, and he had brought apples for Roach. In Geralt’s experience, a man’s worth could often be discovered by how he treated his steed. 

He barely realized when he had stumbled through the gates of the town. His vision was blurry by this point, and his breaths were heaving, choking. He felt as though he was being strangled by his own damned body. Before Geralt could truly take stock of what was happening, he felt a grip on his arm. Someone slipping underneath it, wrapping an arm around his waist, supporting him. 

“The fuck…” His voice was hoarse, even raspier than usual. Geralt winced. He hated his voice. It made him sound more monstrous than he already looked.

“Easy, there. We saw the smoke, figured you’d taken the thing down. Looks like it almost got you, too.”

Ah. Geralt recognized that voice, in a vague sort of way. The captain of the guard, with his noble-looking cheekbones and long, wavy brown hair. He looked too regal for a place such as this. Like he was born for something more, something better. Perhaps he was. Destiny could truly be a cruel mistress.

“Come on, lean on me. Let’s get you back to the barracks.”

“What?” Geralt coughed, his throat irritated by the sudden outburst of talking after almost a day’s silence.

“Whatever happened out there, it clearly nearly took you out as well as that leshen. So come on, let’s get you back to the barracks. I’m sure one of my men can find a spare bed somewhere. You look like you need the rest anyways.”

Geralt let his head drop down onto his chest, too tired to argue, although he was a bit bemused. Men in towns such as this did not take Witchers in, much less find them a bed. Perhaps he was dreaming. He’d wake up somewhere in the middle of the forest, with a sore throat but a clear head, and then he’d make his way back to a far less hospitable town and collect his reward.

When he blinked, though, the man was still there, taking a considerable amount of his weight, grunting as they stumbled through the streets like it was some kind of drunken three-legged race. Geralt almost laughed at the thought. He had never been to a fair as a child. Perhaps this was truly what it was like.

Some people whispered and stared as they went by, but every face that Geralt looked into seemed concerned, not hateful. It was odd, truly. He couldn’t remember the last time anyone had treated him like this. Even when they finally arrived at what appeared to be the barracks, an imposing edifice with far more fortification than the mud hovels that surrounded it, the men stepped aside, saluting or bowing their heads respectfully. Geralt wondered if he had somehow acquired a fever.

“What’re they doing?” He finally managed to rasp, looking at his erstwhile saviour and feeling more confused and anxious by the minute.

“Thanking you. Many of our men died trying to down that thing, whatever it was. You’ve saved their lives. They’re grateful.”

“But…I’m a Witcher.”

“Yes.”

Another man appeared at Geralt’s side, this one a bit shorter, with dark blonde hair and brown eyes that were warm, not hardened like many of the soldiers the Witcher had encountered. He slipped under Geralt’s other arm and steered him left, towards the bottom row of doors, presumably sleeping quarters for the men.

“Our healer is with some of the men at the moment, but he’ll be with you as soon as he’s done. You don’t mind waiting?”

Geralt blinked. No one had ever asked him if he minded anything before.

“…No.”

“Good,” the soldier looked very relieved, “Come with me. The men prepared a room. Hopefully it’ll be to your liking.”

If his throat had been feeling less like it had been roasted over a spit, Geralt might have commented that his normal accommodations consisted of bare ground and, if he was lucky, a mossy rock on which to pillow his head. Perhaps it was best that speaking hurt far too much at the moment. Soldiers were proud men. They probably wouldn’t have appreciated Geralt’s ill attempts at humour. Eskel had always told him he didn’t have a humorous bone in his body, which always made Geralt chuckle, for purely anatomical reasons. Eskel was a master of word games. 

With no real grasp of how he had ended up there, Geralt suddenly found himself being deposited on a small bed, with a lumpy straw mattress. He appraised the room, which was rather barren, but far cleaner than many of the inns he often frequented. The captain of the guard stood back.

“Do you need my help with anything else, sir?”

Choosing to ignore the honorific term he in no way deserved, Geralt gestured fumbled with his sword harness, and finally managed to wrestle the thing off and lean it against the wall. He coughed harshly a few more times, and decided that since these people were offering, perhaps it couldn’t hurt. At worst, they’d poison him and he wouldn’t have to deal with the damnable burning in his throat anymore.

“Some water? Please.” 

The captain had to lean in to hear Geralt’s raspy voice, and he winced a bit.

“I’ll do you one better and bring you some tea with honey. You sound miserable.”

Geralt nodded his thanks and slumped back against the headboard of the bed, trying not to delve too deeply into why these soldiers were welcoming him here. It was hard to be a Witcher and not be suspicious every time you were shown kindness, but Geralt was too tired to be overly concerned at the moment. Some part of him said he should probably at least take his boots off; it was poor form to fall asleep fully dressed on someone else’s bed. Geralt couldn’t bring himself to care. His breaths were coming in harsh pants now, and his armour was both too heavy to stay on his body and too much work to take off. He groaned miserably, letting his head thump back against the wall and his eyes drift shut. Without really even having the time to understand that he was falling asleep, Geralt was out cold.

\----

He came to slowly, to the sound of whispering, hushed voices and the warmth of several bodies in the room besides himself. Alarmed, Geralt blinked his eyes open rapidly, one hand already going for his swords, when he remembered what had happened and was reassured that it appeared to only be the captain of the guard, accompanied by another man. They stood at the foot of his bed, discussing intently together. It appeared they were in the clutches of an argument over who should rouse Geralt.

“Don’t trouble yourselves,” he rasped, choking a bit on his own voice as though it were a tangible thing, buried deep within his lungs, “I’m up now.”

“Thank goodness,” the captain hurried forwards and pressed a steaming mug into his hands, “We were beginning to worry. It would have been shameful indeed, to allow our saviour to die on our watch.”

Geralt snorted at the word ‘saviour’, although even exhaling too hard through his nose set his throat aflame again. He choked, covering his mouth with the back of his hand. When the coughing finally died down a bit, Geralt took a sip of the tea, sighing with relief when it slid down his throat, the heat doing wonders to assuage the pain he felt. While he sipped cautiously, the other, unidentified man stepped forward. Like the captain, he had a noble bearing; a long, straight nose, brown eyes, high cheekbones, and long, dark hair. The only thing that marred his face was an ugly bruise that dripped down from what looked to be a newly broken nose. It surrounded his eye, making it look like he had not slept in several months.

“My name is Einar. I’m the healer here. If, when you’re done, you don’t mind me having a look to make sure your lungs are alright, I’d be happy to give you something to help you sleep as well.”

Geralt looked up from his tea and sized the man up. His hands were those of a warrior; calloused and muscular, with a veritable trove of tiny scars that could only be acquired from training with a blade. That, combined with the bruised eye, made Geralt wonder at his origins. And if his hands would be up to the task of doing the small, focused work of a healer.

Einar seemed to notice his suspicion, and his thin lips broke into a broad smile.

“I know I don’t look to be a healer. This,” he gestured up at his eye, “certainly doesn’t help that image. But I assure you, I am well experienced and trained. The men here trust me with their lives.”

Not feeling he had much choice in the matter, Geralt nodded Einar forward, though he was all too aware of the fact that the knife he kept tucked away in his boot was readily accessible. These people were too kind. Far too good to him. No one was good to a Witcher unless they expected to get something out of it. And at the moment, Geralt knew he had nothing left within himself to give. He doubted he would be able to do so much as stand up and walk back outside. His legs were trembling with exhaustion.

“We saw the smoke in the woods,” Einar began, sitting down on the bed next to Geralt, though he kept a safe distance, “I’m assuming from your voice you breathed a good deal of it in?”

Geralt nodded and took another sip of his tea. Speaking was an agony he would rather avoid, if he had the option. His whole neck felt raw and burnt, as though he had been slow roasted over a spit.

“Unfortunately, there’s not much I can do for such wounds, beyond advising you to keep yourself from speaking more than absolutely necessary. Keep drinking that honey tea; it will help ward off infection. I can give you a draft for the pain and to help you sleep as well.”

A lance of fear struck Geralt’s heart. He had already fallen asleep here once and woken with all his limbs still attached. But the more he interacted with these people, the more he observed they willingness to help him, the more suspicious of them he became. He couldn’t take a drug that would make him sleep. Not here, surrounded by strangers. He shook his head violently, still not trusting himself to speak, and Einar simply shrugged, seeming to take his meaning.

“You’re not the first man I’ve treated with an adversity to sleeping herbs. I won’t be able to give you something quite as strong for the pain if you don’t want it to make you drowsy as well, but I’ll still be able to help a bit. That’s alright by you?”

Geralt nodded, feeling himself sag a bit in relief. At least they weren’t going to drug him forcibly. Though he was unsure how long he could stay awake here. His body was dead tired. Einar stood, mixed what looked to be willow bark and garlic into a cup of water, and placed it on the nightstand before backing away and excusing himself from the room. The healer never turned his back on Geralt, until the door was shut. Geralt himself was unsure if it was a display of respect or of fear. 

Once Einar had excused himself, the captain stepped forward with an apologetic look on his face.

“Sorry about him. His bedside manner…well, having been on the receiving end of it myself, it could use some work. You should try to get some rest, you know, if you can. I understand it may not be the easiest in an unfamiliar place. There’s nothing keeping you here, if you should wish to leave.”

Geralt narrowed his eyes at the man, who, now that the Witcher had had a chance to observe him a bit more coherently, he noticed the way he held himself, like he wasn’t quite at ease. The man’s eyes were strange, too, always flitting this way and that like he expected danger to come leaping out of the walls. Geralt knew the look well. Mostly because he often found himself behaving similarly. 

“You…you’ve seen war.” Geralt rasped out. It was a statement, not a question. The captain sighed and scrubbed a large hand over his high forehead.

“I have. More than I’d care to admit. I came here…to get away from that life. I may be a soldier, but I’ve no love for violence. And I’ve even less love for what violence makes of noble men. I think we are not so different, Geralt of Rivia.”

Geralt shrugged, feeling strangely relieved that at least he had been correct in his assumptions about the man. 

“Do you have a name?” Geralt’s voice was almost gone, but he felt like he should at least know the name of the man who had shown him such kindness.

“Jon.”

Having expected a family name, Geralt cocked his head. When none was forthcoming, he shrugged it off. There were many reasons to hide a family name, and most of them were fairly benign. Perhaps this man simply wanted to protect his family from whatever deeds he had committed during his time in the army. It was an interesting name, though. Not Elder, unlike most of the names in the Northern parts. It sounded like a Cintran or Nilfgaardian name. Geralt shook himself. He had never before expressed any interest in the lineage of men he encountered on contracts, no matter how kind to him they were. It was useless to pursue this line of enquiry. He coughed roughly, and Jon slapped his back, and caught him when his vision tilted sideways and he nearly tipped off the bed.

“Easy, now. I’ll go fetch you some more tea. The men have been asking after you as well; I’ll go tell them that you’re not about to expire in your sleep. Try to get some rest, yes? You look as though you need it.”

Nodding tiredly, his entire body aching and burning from the coughing, Geralt settled back against the bed and, with one final burst of energy, yanked his boots off. They clattered to the floor with a disgusting wet slop, and Jon looked over his shoulder, raising an eyebrow before slipping out the door. As soon as he was done, Geralt stopped trying to control his breathing. He curled in on himself, letting spasm after spasm of coughs wrack his whole body, until he was too tired to even control his movement. He jerked miserably on the bed, each breath absolute torture on his exhausted throat and lungs. At some point, even with the painkillers, it simply became too much, and Geralt buried his face in the pillows, still coughing quietly, and drifted off.

\----

He stayed for nigh on three days before Jon and the other men seemed comfortable letting him leave. They were kind to a fault; one of the young lieutenants of the guard even brought Geralt soup one night after a particularly horrific bout of coughing. It had been a long time since the Witcher had experienced anything near to the kindness and, dare he say, defference with which they treated him. No matter who he asked, their answers were all the same. He had saved many of them from going to their deaths trying to dispose of the leshen. The least they could do was make sure he was feeling his best before he set out on the road again.

On the last day, Jon returned one final time, looking slightly more pompous than Geralt had seen him in the past days. In place of his worn leather jacket and dirty boots was an impeccably cleaned metal breastplate, and a black cloak. He grimaced a bit upon entry, looking himself up and down in the dirty mirror that was propped up in the corner of the room.

“Figured it would be best to set a good example for the men. On how you send off a war hero, that is.”

If Geralt could have coloured, he would have. He buckled his swords onto his back, coughing gently. His throat was still desperately sore, but his voice had mostly returned, and he was no longer kept up for hours at a time, coughing spasmodically. 

“I’m not.” He muttered, staring at his boots uncomfortably. He shifted his weight, suddenly wishing very much to be gone.

“To these men, you are. They don’t have a war. Not in the sense that Nilfgaard and Cintra have a war. There are no grand battles to fight here. Just keeping away vagabonds and bandits and pulling little girls out from under fallen trees. And trying to keep the populace safe from monsters. Those are their battles. One of which you just fought and won, and saved them a veritable horde of casualties along the way.”

Geralt considered this for a moment. Jon had a point, he supposed. But not a very strong one. Killing monsters was his job. The thing he was made for, the thing he was good at. It was not something he should be celebrated for. He shrugged, continuing to stare at the floor. Seeming to sense he had made Geralt uncomfortable, Jon stepped back and looked the Witcher up and down.

“You seem better. Like you managed to get a good rest, at least. You sound far better than you did when you arrived here.”

Geralt nodded.

“You have my thanks.”

Inclining his head in a way that betrayed, above all else, than he was of noble blood, Jon let Geralt pass.

“And you have ours. Many times over, Wolf.”


	15. Trial

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt wakes after his Trials. Eskel tries to gently break the news that they are the only ones left.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This. Broke me to write. Like I was crying while I wrote it but I’m here to provide all the good angst so I hope you guys enjoy it!

Sunlight. There was hot sunlight, pressing its warmth against Geralt’s cheek. He turned his head, enraptured by its gentle heat, trying to ignore the bone-deep ache that crept up his neck at the slight movement. He enjoyed the sun for a moment. Before he realized there was something very wrong.

There was no sunlight. Not in the catacombs beneath the Keep, where he had been taken for a second round of Trials. Not in the soft earth where he would have been buried after he inevitably died due to the extra mutations. There should not be sunlight here. It should not be anywhere near him. After today, he had expected to be a creature of the silent dark, slowly decaying away to nothing more than a memory. He was not allowed sunlight.

Gasping before it turned into a rasping cough, Geralt tried to turn his head the other way, tried to get the light away from his face. It was a cruel trick. A way devised by the gods to torture him even after his death. He could not let them win. Couldn’t let them see how desperately he wanted that warmth. Just one more day of warm sunlight before his brothers carried his body away to be buried. 

As he tried to turn his head, though, there was a soft touch on his cheek. It burned a bit; his nerves felt so raw, like his skin had been peeled away and they had been laid bare. But Geralt knew that hand. He choked back a sob. Eskel couldn’t be here. Eskel couldn’t be dead, couldn’t be by his side through this torture. Because of the two of them, Eskel was meant to live. He was the one who was going to come out the other side of the Trials even stronger, ready to walk the Path and defend people from the evils that had crawled out of a different sphere. That was always the way it was meant to happen. It was the one thing that had been bringing Geralt a bit of peace in all this hell.

“Ah…Eskel? No, Gods.”

“I’m here, Geralt,” Eskel’s voice sounded cracked and broken, like he had been crying, or screaming, “You’re alright, don’t worry. I know you’re very sore, but you’re alright now. It’s all done.”

The hand continued to caress his cheek gently, and Geralt couldn’t decide which was worse: the sunlight and the promise of a new day he knew he would never see, or the knowledge that somehow, Eskel had ended up here with him. He whimpered. Every part of his body hurt.

“Shh, it doesn’t do to talk after. I’ll get you some water, alright? This is the first time you’ve been awake in days.”

Awake? Could one be awake or asleep in death? Geralt had always assumed that death would just be one, long, dreamless sleep. The fact that he was even here now was miraculous. Although, based off how horrible he felt, Geralt wouldn’t have minded the dreamless sleep option. He felt sick.

Eskel’s hand was back after a moment, and now Geralt could smell him, and it was all too much. He could smell Eskel, and the soap used to clean the glass, and the spring from which the water had been drawn from. He wanted to scream; every nerve was laid bare and he could smell and taste and fell everything and it was all simply too much. His breaths quickened, even though his lungs felt like they were made of led, and in a detached sort of way Geralt sensed the water being poured down his throat, and Eskel gently rubbing his neck to make sure he swallowed. 

“There’s something for the pain in the water. It will all be too much, for the first few days. You’ve just got to ride it out, I’m afraid. But I’m here, if you need.”

Eskel’s hand shifted down to Geralt’s own palm, which felt bruised and cut. He had a vague memory of digging his nails into his palm, when the mages had begun rearranging his insides. He couldn’t remember much after that, though. That was probably when he had died. 

“Eskel…” Geralt’s voice was a cracked, broken thing, barely there and incredibly painful, “Why’re you dead? You…shouldn’t be here.”

Eskel gave a hoarse, painful laugh, and Geralt winced a bit when his hand was suddenly squeezed very forcefully.

“Dead? Oh, Geralt, if only.”

That made Geralt blink his eyes open, wanting to see his brother. He gave a gasp, though, when he cracked them open the tiniest amount and was assaulted by a sudden burst of painful light. There was an urgent rustling as Geralt groaned, unable to lift his hands to shield his face, and then something soft was placed over his eyes.

“Gods, Geralt, take it easy. You’ve barely been out of the catacombs for a day. No need to torture yourself.”

“I’m…out?”

“You’re fine. Or, as fine as you can be, seeing as how those bastards put you through an absolute nightmare in there. You’re running one hell of a fever, and you’re very, very weak, but you’ll be alright. If you lie back, and rest, and let me look after you.”

“Just…you?”

Geralt and Eskel had had other friends. Friends who had promised they would be there when they all woke up on the other side. Where had they gone, Geralt wondered. After a moment, Eskel’s heavy sigh said it all.

“Gone. All of them. I’ve been up and well for about a week. A few other boys survived the first few days, but they succumbed to the fever, or bled out. I buried them, you know. Put a flower in Orion’s grave, like he’d asked. Covered Ragnar’s body with a shroud, like his customs dictated. They were well taken care of. And those that survived for a while, they were worried for you.”

Geralt wanted to let out a sigh, but it came as more of a sobbing whimper. He turned his head, but the cursed sun was still there, beating down on his burning, sensitive skin. That sun, which was shining on him so gaily, mocking him when it knew damn well it would never shine on Ragnar again. On any of those boys, some barely older than thirteen, who had never bedded a woman, some who had never even seen the world beyond Kaer Morhen. Geralt felt a tear run down his cheek, and it was too cold and hurt all over, sending tremors through his sensitive skin, but once he felt one tear, they just kept on coming. He could do nothing to stop them, except wait for Eskel to wipe them away with a soft bit of cloth. At one point, Eskel sniffed too, and Geralt squeezed his hand weakly.

“’M glad,” he rasped out, coughing and choking, “…you’re here.”

This seemed to be as much as Geralt’s body could take, and he suddenly found himself retching, vomit running down his chin, too weak even to lean over and let it fall somewhere else. He choked and coughed, and felt Eskel dabbing at his face and bare chest with a damp rag.

“Shh, stop your talking. It’s only making it worse.”

Geralt nodded, sinking back, trying to relax, but all he could see were Ragnar and Orion, their boyish eyes, both younger than his own, flashing over and over again through his mind. Everything hurt, and he was shivering now, but the blankets that Eskel pulled up were far too scratchy on his sensitive skin, and he wanted to be sick but he was too weak.

“Feel…terrible.” He finally ground the words out, regretting the moment they exited his mouth. After all, he was alive, wasn’t he? Wouldn’t the other boys give anything to be here, feeling terrible, but at least feeling something? Feeling the sun on their skin, and a brother’s hand carding softly through their hair. He was selfish. Selfish and stupid and immature. He had not deserved to survive.

Eskel, though, was gentle with him, even though he knew Geralt well enough to understand how idiotic he probably felt for having said such a thing. He rubbed a thumb along Geralt’s ear, adjusted the cloth lying over his eyes.

“It’ll pass,” he assured him, “Give it a few days, and just try to rest as much as possible while the fever breaks, alright? You’ll be feeling much better in a few days, and then we can go visit them. I know you’d like that. To say goodbye. You were good to them, you know.”

Not good enough, Geralt wanted to say, Not good enough to keep them whole and healthy and safe and alive. What kind of older brother couldn’t even protect his siblings? 

“You’re alright, Geralt. You survived, and I’m right here. You just sleep now, alright?”

Geralt tried, he really did. Tried to settle his breaths and calm his mind, but he was too tired to sleep, too sick to let himself drift away. His mind ran in circles far into the night, long after Eskel had slumped exhaustedly onto the side of his bed. He didn’t dare open his eyes again, for fear that all his dead brothers would be there, watching him. Waiting for him to recover and live the life that they would never have.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please feel free to leave a comment or kudos if you’re feelin’ it.


	16. Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt confronts a fear he didn’t entirely realize he had. 
> 
> CW: Fairly graphic depictions of violence. Canon-typical but ye be warned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahh I’m so happy you’re all enjoying this story so far!!! Anyways this was one of my favourite chapters to write (I have a deep love for writing horrifically twisted, violent characters and it definitely came through here...yikes!). Hope you enjoy and feel free to leave any comments or kudos you have!

“Please! Fucking hell, please, just let him go! It’s not him you’re looking for.”

Geralt could hardly believe the words were coming out of his mouth, so dissimilar were they to his normal (albeit limited) verbal repertoire. He did not beg. And he certainly did not beg for wayward bards who had introduced themselves into his life without so much as asking his permission first. But somewhere along the line, and entirely without Geralt’s consent, Jaskier had become someone…important to him. Someone he was willing to utter such words for. Though, under the circumstances, anyone with a heart would have been hard pressed to stay silent. Geralt supposed that was what these men wanted. To prove that he had a heart, that he could feel. The were cackling now, like a pack of hens. He hated it. Hated every noise that vomited from their cruel, twisted lips.

“Not the one we’re looking for, he says? Not who we want? No, no, no, this is too good. This proves the bard is exactly who we want. 

“Oi, bard! You can thank your Witcher for the fact that we’re not letting you go right now. It turns out he seems, in a twisted way, to care about you. Consider yourself the luckiest man in the realm, to be doted on by such an illustrious warrior!”

Geralt struggled furiously, twisting in the uncomfortable shackles that kept him near pinned, spread-eagled against the dungeon wall. He tried to make eye contact with Jaskier, but the bard’s head remained drooped and exhausted. He had not lifted it in several hours. Geralt was beginning to wonder if the man was even still conscious. They had beaten him within an inch of his life; Geralt wouldn’t blame Jaskier for wanted to be as far from consciousness as humanly possible at the moment.

After a moment, though, Jaskier’s head lifted. He didn’t make eye contact with Geralt. His mouth was bloody, and there was a string of red spit dangling off the end of his chin. One of his eyes was blackened and swollen. And still, he hawked and spat on the floor.

“Do with me…what you will. Geralt is no friend of mine.” The words were raspy, barely there, and for a moment Geralt hoped, prayed he had misheard the bard. He had never felt so confused. Had they not been sharing a meal over a fire mere days ago? Jaskier had cracked one of his stupid jokes about Geralt’s hunting skills, and the Witcher, against all his better instincts, had laughed, chuckling obscenely to himself until he was quite breathless. Jaskier had wrapped an arm around his shoulder, and leaned his long, brown curls on Geralt’s chest. Smiled up at him almost adoringly. Surely, this was some kind of mistake.

“Jaskier?”

“What are you looking at, mutant bastard?” Jaskier’s eyes were full of venom. There was nothing but hatred there, bloody and enraged. Blood rushed to Geralt’s ears, and he couldn’t think, couldn’t see anything but red anger and something deeper, something cracking inside his very chest. He slumped in the chains, head bowing and smacking painfully against his sternum. Somewhere, the men were laughing. There was one particularly vicious one, with a pointed black beard and strong, dark eyebrows. He was the one who had beaten Jaskier so violently, kept on kicking even when there were tears pouring from the bard’s eyes and blood pouring from his mouth and nose. It was a river, Geralt thought. A river that, he was now discovering, had carried every tender moment he and the bard had ever shared far away. A bloody river that had replaced those memories with coldness, and an emptiness that Geralt could not name. He shivered a bit. Someone had taken his shirt, and it was cold down here, so far away from the sunlight. 

The men continued to laugh for some time. A few of them poked and prodded at the bard, but he dangled uselessly in his shackles, the tips of his boots dragging on the floor. A long string of bloody spit would occasionally break off from his mouth and land of the ground with a wet slap that seemed far too loud on Geralt’s sensitive ears. Eventually, then men grew tired of antagonizing him, when he was clearly determined to give them no reaction. If Jaskier hadn’t denounced him so venomously moments before, Geralt would have been proud of the bard. He still was proud. But he couldn’t allow himself to think such thoughts about a man who clearly hated him. This was exactly the reason Geralt stayed far away from human conflicts and friendships. Over and over, he had been shown that no good could come from them.

The man with the cruel beard had migrated over to stand in front of Geralt now. His hands were bloodstained, and he had a grin on his face that was composed of pure malice. He chuckled, cracking his knuckles.

“Well, Witcher? This bard claims to want nothing to do with you. Perhaps we should just kill him, then. Put him out of his misery so he never has to see your ugly face again.”

Geralt could only shake his head. If he opened his mouth, he would have to explain why he was still protecting the man who had called him a mutant bastard moments before. And that was something he could not, would not do. 

“No, you say? Even after all he’s said about you? The way he spat on the floor and cursed at you, and you’re still defending him? Damn, you’re weaker than I thought. Perhaps I should carve his beating heart from his chest, eh? Pour his still warm blood over that pretty silver hair. That’d break you. Break you and bleed you dry, I say.”

Geralt choked on something that felt like words, but also could have been vomit. He was horrified. He couldn’t be responsible for Jaskier meeting such a fate. No matter how much the bard hated him now.

“You can’t. Let him go. Let him walk free, and I’ll stay. I’ll do whatever you say.”

“Ah! And finally we arrive at the crux of the issue! You think I want you for something, Witcher. That I’ve brought you here to assassinate some lord or for you to do my bidding ’til my dying day. But that’s where you’re wrong. I don’t want anything from you, Butcher, but your pain. I want to see the impossible. I want to make you suffer in every way I can, slowly, until the life drains out of you and leaves you breathless and begging. And then, Witcher, I will kill you. I’ll kill you while you’re drenched in your precious bard’s blood.”

The man turned, his side profile even more wicked looking than when he stared at Geralt head on. He made a motion with his hand, and two other men, huge and burly, sauntered out of the shadows. They looked smug and delighted in the way that men of low intelligence look when they feel they have accomplished something of great worth.

“Cut out his heart,” the bearded man motioned at Jaskier, “Perhaps I’ll starve our white wolf here, until he has no choice but to eat it.”

Geralt did vomit then, and it was far more painful than any illness he had previously experienced. It felt like he had broken ribs, but he had no memory of breaking them. All he knew was that he was burning, and so very frightened, and that Jaskier hated him and these men were still about to free the bard’s heart from his body. Geralt yanked at the chains, over and over, until his wrists were raw and blood ran in rivulets down his arms. It streamed across the floor, adding to the torrent already left there by the bard. The larger of the two men took out a large hunting knife and began sharpening it. They were both laughing, watching his pain like it was some kind of cheap entertainment.

“Now, now. Don’t bathe yourself in your own blood before you’ve had a chance to taste his. He’s very pretty, you know. I’m sure he tastes delicious. But you would know better than I, wouldn’t you.”

Geralt slammed his head forward, and caught the bearded man on the chin, sending his neck snapping backwards. The Witcher saw stars then, as he dangled forwards limply, but it was worth it to see his tormentor spitting and cursing, blood dripping from his nose.

“Taste as good as you thought, bastard?”

The man backhanded Geralt then, and it took a moment for him to recover his already addled senses. When he did, the Witcher’s heart plummeted down to his bare feet. One of the large men was holding Jaskier’s arms behind his back, while the other one was yanking off the remnants of the bard’s shirt in preparation to make the first deep incision into his chest. Geralt could do nothing but watch; the bearded man’s hand was clamped fast around his chin, keeping him from looking away. Not that Geralt would have ever looked away. If Jaskier was going to die here, he deserved to have Geralt bear witness. Even if the bard no longer considered him a friend.

“Jaskier…” Geralt rasped, his voice thick with pain and the fallout of his bout of illness, “I’m so sorry. So, so sorry. Please.”

The bard’s eyes quavered, and then dragged themselves upright to meet Geralt’s. They were icy blue, the same eyes the Witcher always remembered, and they were full of tears, trembling on the ridges of his eyelids and threatening to spill over. When their eyes met, Geralt felt something building deep within him. Grief, he realized. Every inch of him screamed to do something, but he could do nothing but grieve.

And so, he did. Silently, he grieved as the man lifted the knife high over his head, and plunged it into Jaskier’s breast, pale and unmarred by a single scar, so different from Geralt’s own. He grieved as Jaskier screamed and cried. A single tear fell down his cheek as the cruel knife flicked to the side, and exposed the bard’s whole, living, beating heart. It was so loud, so real, Geralt could almost hear it beating in time with one of Jaskier’s songs. And then, just as suddenly as its sound had become so clear, with a final, high pitched cry, it ceased.

\----

Jaskier was at his wit’s end. Running on several days and nights with no sleep, he had sat up with Geralt through what he was sure was the worst of his fever. But, just when the bard had been sure the illness was finally going to break and release its hold on the Witcher, the fever had gone up. Up to a level that would have definitely killed an ordinary man. And so, Jaskier stayed up, unable to leave Geralt’s side, while the man shivered and groaned and soaked the sheets in his sweat and blood and piss. No amount of washing his brow could whisk the sweat away, and no amount of soothing words could calm him. The Witcher was restless, too sick even to open his eyes, and yet Jaskier could tell that whatever was haunting his dreams was causing him deep upset. He only wished he could do something, anything, to reassure Geralt that all was well, that it was nothing more than a nightmare.

Finally, though, after many hours of tossing and turning and Jaskier murmuring quiet reassurances that had no effect, something shifted. Geralt whimpered, a pained, heart-rending thing. And then he stilled. His face slackened, and for the first time in hours Jaskier wasn’t afraid of him shifting and worsening the damage to his already badly broken ribs. The bard sighed, relieved, but he couldn’t quite let himself relax. There was a heaviness in the air, a minute trembling of Geralt’s breaths as he lay, still as death, sweat pouring down his face and heavily bruised chest.

“Geralt,” Jaskier hazarded a whisper, hoping that perhaps the Witcher was working his way back to consciousness, “Are you quite alright?”

The silver head shifted, and dark brows drew together, so Jaskier knew that Geralt had at least registered that there was someone speaking to him. The amber eyes remained firmly closed, though. They were tightly squeezed, as though Geralt were afraid to open them, for fear of what he would see.

“It’s alright. You’re safe, I got you out. Just open your eyes, please, so I know you haven’t hit your head and lost all your memories. Or gone senile in your old age.”

Geralt made a choking noise, and Jaskier thought he caught what almost looked like a tear dripping down the man’s sweaty face. He wiped it away with a calloused finger.

“Geralt, what’s wrong? Talk to me, please.”

“You…” Geralt choked out, still not opening his eyes, “You died. Hating me. This…can’t be real.”

Jaskier’s heart gave a painful squeeze when he heard what must have been the contents of Geralt’s nightmare. He reached down and took the Witcher’s hand, the one that wasn’t wrapped in bandages.

“It was just a dream, Geralt. You’ve had a very high fever; I’ve been at my wits’ end trying to make sure you didn’t expire and bleed all over this very nice innkeeper’s sheets. But it was just the illness, making you dream all sorts of horrible things. I don’t hate you. And I’m very much not dead.”

At these words, Geralt managed to work his eyes open, though they were unfocused and very hazy. He looked miserable; dark circles drawn around his eyes and a sickly pallor floating over his skin. Jaskier stroked his cheek gently, and when they made eye contact, Geralt’s jaw worked furiously, as though he were choking back a sob.

“See? I’m right here. And very, very fond of you, my dear.”

A small fire, kindled and warmed over years of their travelling together, suddenly bloomed to life in Jaskier’s chest. Of course, it was incredibly painful to see Geralt go through such agony. But a small part of him blossomed and curled with warmth to know that in the Witcher’s worst nightmares, it was Jaskier who was being taken from him. Not Yennefer. Or Triss. Surely, that had to mean something.

“Y’sure? Your chest…it’s alright?”

Not entirely sure what Geralt was on about, but willing and eager to comfort him, Jaskier lifted his white shirt, demonstrating that he was uninjured.

“See? Good as new. And, if I may say so, looking very fine.”

He gave a lascivious grin, and Geralt grimaced and let his eyes slide shut again. At least his reactions were still in keeping with his sunny disposition, Jaskier reflected grimly. Perhaps he was not so bad off as the bard had originally assumed. 

“’S good. You…you have a nice heart. Belongs ’n your chest.”

Jaskier almost laughed, before realizing the implications of Geralt’s comment. He pulled up the blankets a bit and placed a chaste kiss on the Witcher’s forehead.

“You’re very delirious, and very tired. Try to get some rest now that the dreams are over, alright?”

Geralt reached out a trembling hand, which, after a few failed attempts, latched onto the front of Jaskier’s shirt. He made eye contact, and opened his mouth a few times. However, whatever words he wanted to get out seemed to be lodged deep in his throat.

“Should I stay with you? Just so you know the dream isn’t real, if it comes back?”

The suggestion was ridiculous, Jaskier knew. Geralt had never asked for anything like this, would never admit to such weakness. The bard was fully expecting for him to roll his eyes and roll over, leaving Jaskier alone to his thoughts and supreme embarrassment. But, to his surprise, Geralt nodded, biting his lower lip and averting his eyes in a way that Jaskier found inexplicably attractive. The Witcher tried to move over, and winced when the movement hurt his ribs.

“Stop that. It’s alright, I’ve got more than enough room here.”

Jaskier crawled into bed next to Geralt, trying not to take notice of the parts of him which hung over the edge of the bed frame. It would only make Geralt feel guilty to know that he was unable to move, and was crowding Jaskier off the bed. Sighing, the Witcher placed a clumsy hand in his hair.

“There, see? I’m more than real. And I’m not going anywhere, so don’t worry.”

“Thank you…”

The words were so quiet, so subtle that Jaskier wondered for a moment if he had imagined them. As Geralt relaxed into sleep, though, he decided it didn’t matter. Imagined or not, the way Geralt was slumped against him, loose and vulnerable and finally healing, was more than enough thanks. Smiling a little bit, Jaskier snuggled up closer, enjoying for a moment the feeling of Geralt’s warm skin against his own cold hands. It was winter, and it had been freezing, sitting in that chair for hours and not daring to light a fire for fear that any extra warmth would kill Geralt, with a fever as high as it had been. Under the blankets, though, and with the fever finally going down, the temperature was just right, and Jaskier was very tired. He sighed and closed his eyes, hoping that Geralt would be able to wake him when he was needed again.


	17. Loss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He has to keep going. But, does he really deserve to when Renfri will never get that chance? When Marilka will be haunted forever by what happened in her village? 
> 
> Roach thinks so.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaand I give you...more emotional angst because I really can’t help myself! I really love getting into Geralt’s thoughts after Blaviken...this combines both books and show (in the books, Geralt doesn’t hold Renfri as she dies, but leaves her lying in the dirt as she asks him to hold her because she’s cold...this always breaks my heart to read). 
> 
> Enjoy!!

For a long while, all that Geralt could hear was the harsh clopping of Roach’s hooves on the road. The main road, he realized. The road that Renfri had advised he take, instead of slogging his way through backwater swamps. A small pain stabbed at his side, and he tried to ignore it. Renfri was dead. He was taking the main road. The two things were not connected.

Occasionally, a harsh wind would blow. A few times, it caused Roach to veer, and once it startled her by swirling up a gusty tornado of dead winter leaves in her face. She reared a bit then, and whinnied, and Geralt tried to settle her, placing his hands on her neck and stroking her velvety brown ears, but she would not be calmed, racing heedlessly ahead down the road. She was a new mare; this was his first autumn with her. Likely she had never seen leaves swirl up like this before. That, along with the villagers who had hurled stones at her delicate muscles as Geralt had urged her from the village, must have frightened her. So Geralt slid his legs free of the stirrups while she rushed on, and swung his leg over her flank, wincing when his feet connected with solid ground. A bit of blood oozed through his pants, and he had to catch himself on a nearby tree to keep from stumbling to the ground. 

His plan worked, though. The minute she was suddenly and unexpectedly freed of her master’s weight, Roach wheeled, her brown eyes looking about desperately to see what had become of Geralt. When she saw him, she snorted softly and trotted over, warm breath creating a frosty cloud in the cold, evening air. He reached up a shaky palm, and only then realized that it was coated in slick blood. Roach snorted and sidestepped, her eyes rolling with alarm as she caught its metallic scent.

“It’s alright. Just me.”

Geralt wiped away the blood on his pants, and investigated the cut. It was large and far too deep; the sides of the wound gaped up at him like an obscene grimace before the blood welled and seeped over the edges once again. It would need stitching. So would his leg. Already, he was dizzy with blood loss, and he could feel a pool of the stuff welling up around him. No wonder Roach was more spooked than usual. Geralt smelled like a butcher’s shop. Apt, considering his newly earned title. Part of him said that he shouldn’t wash the blood off. That he didn’t deserve to be clean. Not after he had left Renfri in the street in a pool of her own bodily fluids. Frozen and alone and asking over and over to be held. And he had simply walked away. No, he did not deserve to wash himself clean of her blood, or of his own. 

Roach was nosing at him again though, and if anything could pull Geralt from a self-destructive spiral, it was his horse. She needed him. Required that he keep going, keep on fulfilling contracts, because if he did not, she would starve, and she was too good for such an end. Clearly, she had overcome her fear of his blood, too. He grimaced, unsure whether to be amused or not by the irony of it all. It seemed the only one not afraid of him was his own horse, the most skittish of creatures. Though, perhaps humans were truly more skittish. In their own way.

Sighing, Geralt reached out and caught her mane haphazardly in his fist, relieved when Roach held her neck in place. He was quickly losing the ability to keep himself upright, and she was sturdy and warm. He leaned his face into her chestnut coat, sighing and breathing in her smell.

“I’m sorry, Roach,” he breathed tiredly, patting her with a clumsy hand, “About all of it. You didn’t deserve that. I’ll get myself cleaned up, and then I’ll feed you, alright?”

She huffed softly, but did not bend her neck or try to step away, clearly sensing that her master would fall without her steady support. Geralt limped along beside her, boots crunching the rhythm of his uneven steps on the gravel road. They needed to find a place to camp. Find a place to camp. Bandage his wounds. Feed Roach. Don’t think about Renfri. Don’t see Marilka’s deadened, hurt eyes. Geralt repeated this mantra to himself with every step that he took. It offered him very little comfort, though. Renfri’s eyes were everywhere, watching him. It was cold, tonight. The same way she had been cold before she had died in the dirt at his feet.

Eventually, Roach took it into her own head to find them a place to camp. Geralt was relieved. He didn’t have the space in his mind to think about such things at the moment. His eyes were full of Renfri; her face flashing in front of him whenever he turned his head. Perhaps it was simply the blood loss, making him see things. But he willingly followed Roach as she led him off the road and into the brush, nosing the larger trees out of the way with her snout. Eventually, Geralt heard the soft burbling of a stream. He shook his head, trying to clear the memories of sleeping with Renfri just the night before, with a similar backdrop of noise. 

“Roach…we can’t stay here.”

She looked back at him, big eyes asking him why not. Then, she shook her head violently, making Geralt lose his balance. He landed hard on the cold ground, the breath knocked from his lungs and his ribs aching. He groaned and slumped over, arms leaned on his knees. There was no way he would be able to stand back up now. 

“Thanks.” He looked up at her with false venom in his eyes. She snorted and nosed his leg gently.

“I know. Just…just give me a moment. I’m getting to it.”

Always able to anticipate his needs, Roach let her front legs buckle, hitting the ground with a soft exhale, and making Geralt’s saddlebags easily accessible. With trembling hands, he removed the needle and thick suturing thread he always kept readily accessible. Unfortunately, the herbs for pain and the healing potions were buried underneath several more layers; Geralt would have to wait until he was feeling a bit less dizzy to access them. His hands shook as he threaded the needle. It would be another ugly scar, poorly stitched by hands that felt far too weak. 

After making the first suture, Geralt was panting, and his vision was narrowing down to a mere pinprick. He was leaning over the wound, trying to keep it in his extremely narrowed field of vision. Roach was standing again, but she stayed protectively close to him, positioned between Geralt and the road, as though to protect him from any vengeful villagers who had decided to follow them. Geralt knotted the next suture, trying to ignore the hot blood that welled from the cut and dripped audibly on the fallen leaves below him. It was painful, rotten work. Not for the first time, the Witcher found himself wishing he had a travel companion. Eskel, perhaps. His brother had always been good at stitching his wounds. Though, Geralt realized with a painful pang, after Eskel heard about Blaviken, it was likely he would be just as furious as the other Witchers. It was hard enough for them to get work, without one of their own meandering the Continent, tarnishing the lingering good name that they had left. 

Gods. This brought on a whole host of new possibilities. It was likely Vesemir would not even let Geralt back into Kaer Morhen this winter. Vesemir, after all, was the one who had taught him to be merciful with a blade. He had always said that it was Geralt’s responsibility to keep people safe when they were unable to do it themselves. His mentor would probably be devastatingly disappointed. After all, Geralt had been raised better than to be a Butcher. Whatever instincts had caused him to murder those people, they were not those of a Witcher. The responsibility rested on Geralt’s shoulders alone. It was a thought which terrified him almost as much as being excommunicated by the only family he had ever known.

Belatedly, the Witcher realized he had forgotten he was supposed to be suturing his leg. The blood loss must be worse than he had originally though. He chuckled a bit, a drunken noise that made Roach’s head snap upright.

“’S alright, girl. Just me. ‘M a little…drunk.”

Roach snorted, as if to tell him he was not even remotely drunk, just operating on about half his normal blood volume. Geralt waved her off. A mere trifle, this wound. He tried to ignore the visions that popped into his head over and over again, of Renfri stabbing him, of the ferocity and pain in her eyes. Perhaps she had not wanted to fight him, either. They had been drawn together by a series of unavoidable circumstances. By destiny.

Destiny could go to hell then, Geralt thought. He exhaled shakily, and watching curiously as more blood dripped from his leg onto the ground. The sound was hypnotic. It made him feel a sudden, all-encompassing exhaustion. Perhaps he could just go to sleep here. Maybe he would wake up at Renfri’s side, in the woods with the sun filtering in through the remaining leaves. He would have loved nothing more than to wake and discover that all this had been a dream.

Roach whacked him in the head with her snout then, just as he was finally about to drift off. Geralt’s head smacked against the tree he was leaning against, and he swore viciously, clutching the new wound. His skin felt electrified and raw, like it had after the Trials. Every inch of him ached. But Roach was right. He needed to stitch and bandage that wound. If not for himself, than at least to live out his destiny as the Butcher of Blaviken. He deserved to be punished for what he had done. He deserved every inch of the scorn he knew the people of the Continent would heap on him now. Perhaps, if he took enough of their hatred, Geralt would be able to spare his brothers that misery. Let the villagers stone him in the streets, instead of subjecting Lambert or Eskel, who had done nothing wrong, to the same torture.

With trembling hands and fingers than felt more like sausages than actual appendages, Geralt picked up the needle and thread again, nearly dropping it. He made two more sutures, trying to keep his muscles relaxed but failing miserably, and then sat back and checked his handiwork. It was sloppy, at best. The wound would scar hideously, but in a way, Geralt was glad of that. He needed that reminder of Renfri. A reminder of what he had done, and all the people had hurt. Carrying a scar was nothing compared to the trauma Marilka would carry forever, and it was certainly nothing compared to Renfri, who would never get to feel anger or happiness or love or heartache ever again. Geralt twisted a bit of bandage around the wound, sloppily, and leaned back against the tree, drawing his cloak around him as the cold night air made him shiver. There was still the gash in his palm, he realized, but he simply could not bring himself to be concerned about it. Let it become infected. Perhaps then he would simply expire in his sleep. A cowardly part of him wanted that, so desperately. 

Colours and sounds and shapes began to shift together in the way that they always did when Geralt experienced severe blood loss. He groaned a bit, and tried to get more comfortable without moving too much. His leg was twitching of its own volition now, the muscles spasming and seizing painfully. The Witcher put out a hand to steady it, but it only made the tremors worse. Eventually, he settled back for a sleepless night, hoping he would manage to get in a few hours of light dozing before the inevitable fever and infection in his hand set in. 

He deserved it. All of it. The infection, the fever, the spasming and seizing muscles. If Renfri was here, she would tell him that this was his punishment for not choosing the lesser evil, for not holding her when she had told him she was cold. So Geralt lay back, miserable and tired, and relished in the agony of it all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any and all comments and kudos are relished and treasured by the author!!


	18. Salt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier does something incredibly idiotic, and unwittingly makes Geralt suffer through an old trauma.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HEAR YE HEAR YE! This was another one of my absolute favourite pieces to write for all of Whumtober, and another one I’m considering expanding, if that appeals to all you lovely humans. Lemme know if that’s something you’d be interested in!!

The waves beat against the beach over and over again, crashing and booming and ringing in Jaskier’s ears. The sea was a living thing, he thought. A wild creature, with a temper that could turn on a dime and a pulse as reckless and free as the winds in the mountains. He loved the pulse of the sea. It reverberated through his whole body, made him feel melodies that were beyond human comprehension. As he had travelled the world more and more, Jaskier had come to discover that those melodies were all around him. The music of the earth, made clear for any who cared to stop and listen. Elves were the best at hearing it, and many times Jaskier had envied them their sensitive ears and attuned senses. Several times, the bard had wondered if Geralt was sensitive to it as well. If he heard beats in the wind and the air that Jaskier could only dream of. Unfortunately, he had never found a suitable way to articulate such a nebulous question to the Witcher. Geralt would probably have looked at him with that lovely, bemused look on his face. For all his intelligence and his deeply philosophical mind, Geralt was not one for hearing the beauty in the sea and the air. To him, nature was a tool that he used to be good at his trade, and nothing more. It provided him with clues and pointed him in the right direction when all else failed. But it was not beautiful. And it certainly did not sing. At least, Geralt didn’t recognize that it did.

They had made their way down to the coast a few days ago now, as Jaskier’s suggestion. After travelling up and down the inland villages, taking contracts at almost every one, he had seen Geralt’s strength flagging. The Witcher was tired, far too lean, and it didn’t take someone with an observant eye to see that he wasn’t sleeping. And while Geralt was prone to frequent bouts of insomnia, it didn’t mean Jaskier could simply stand idly by and let the man suffer. So, he had suggested a break. A week, camping along the coast. Perhaps they could find a beach somewhere, and settle down for a few nights. While Geralt had looked less than enthused about the idea, he had seemed too tired and run down to complain. This was consent enough for Jaskier, who had spent the few days’ journey to the jagged cliffs that dotted the coast in these parts describing in great detail the seaside holidays he remembered as a child. They were one of his few fond memories of his entire family together. Geralt had listened on, silent and stone-faced. 

Now, however, Jaskier was beginning to wonder if everything was really alright with the Witcher. Long periods of silence were not strange, but combined with the insomnia and general restlessness that only seemed to be getting worse the closer they got to the coast, the bard was beginning to worry. Surely, he would feel better once they had had a few days’ rest. Their last contract, a bruxa living in an abandoned fortress, had taken a lot out of Geralt. He had gone through nearly his entire store of Black Blood trying to poison the damn thing, and the aftereffects of the toxicity had left him exhausted and sickened, laid up in bed for days. Jaskier tried to reassure himself with such thoughts, and with the beautiful wildness of the landscape around him. If there had ever been a time and place to get down to some serious composing, this was it. The wind and the salt and the sea made him feel inspired. If only Geralt’s mood would lighten, he would finally be able to concentrate properly on his music.

The bard jogged to catch up with his companion, who was walking with Roach a little ways ahead, his gait slightly altered by the unsure footing of the gravelly sand. Jaskier almost laughed; Geralt was always so surefooted. It was strange to see him trip or stumble, unless there was something wrong.

“This sand is a bitch to walk in, hmm?” He nearly had to yell to be heard over the crashing surf, so it surprised him all the more when Geralt flinched in surprise at the sound of his voice. 

“What?”

“The sand!” Jaskier tried lowering his voice a bit, “It’s hard to walk in.”

“Ah. Yes.”

Geralt looked quite pale, although that wasn’t exactly unusual. Jaskier also noticed, though, that his hands were gripping Roach’s reins so tightly that his knuckles were completely devoid of blood flow, making conspicuous white spots on his long fingers. 

“Are you alright, Geralt?”

Once again, the Witcher started, as though he had forgotten Jaskier was at his side. He looked up, and when the bard followed his gaze he saw birds wheeling overhead. Occasionally, one would dive down, precariously close to their heads, snapping its beak and cawing furiously. Jaskier had to resist the urge to duck, and he took off his hat, concerned for its wellbeing. Perhaps the birds were taking revenge on him because of the ostrich feather. Ostriches, he believed, were an endangered species. Though the thought hadn’t crossed his mind while he was buying the thing.

“Geralt?”

“Fine.”

Jaskier let out a long exhale through his nose, trusting the crashing waves to mask the noise even from Geralt’s sensitive ears. The Witcher only used the word ‘fine’ when he was anything but. Sensing he had his work cut out for him trying to get Geralt to divulge what was the matter, Jaskier took a few deep breaths before plunging back in. Trying to extract information from Geralt when he was not in a talkative mood was often more dangerous than taking a dip in the icy, turbulent seas that occupied this part of the Continent. Luckily, Jaskier was nothing if not practiced.

“Very well. Have it your way. But I shall simply have to keep on guessing if I don’t have a proper answer.”

Geralt’s steps picked up in speed considerably after that, though Jaskier noticed that he was still not as surefooted as normal, and he would often stop to shake his head or frown, lifting his head and scenting the air like a bloodhound. It was all very strange, and the bard was determined to get to the bottom of it. Despite all his adversity to sharing his inner turmoil, not discussing whatever was causing him distress would often put Geralt in a foul mood for days. And Jaskier fully intended on enjoying their time at the seaside, free of the Witcher’s moodiness.

“I know! It’s the birds. The smell of the birds must be atrocious. Not that I can smell it over the sea salt, but I’m sure with a nose like yours you can smell anything and everything that’s occupied this beach for the last several weeks. Or, it could be the cliffs. I have to admit, they give me a bad feeling as well. Nothing like a huge, shit stained wall looming over you to really put your own mortality into perspective. That, along with this fucking sand, it’s enough to drive anyone mad. The way it sinks under your feet, like it’s some living thing moving with you…ugh…we really should find a better place to camp, Geralt. This isn’t what I had in mind when I said I wanted to go to the coast. I was thinking more…warm, soft sand. And a calm beach. Less…crashing surf.”

Jaskier could see the Witcher’s hand fisting inside his leather glove, and was well aware that he had entered very dangerous territory. It was always a toss-up whether Geralt would turn around and gut him, or break down his infernal walls momentarily and talk.

“Shut up, bard.”

Willingly, Jaskier clamped his mouth shut, hoping that Geralt would continue on. He did not. His face was closed off, jaw set and clenched so hard that the bard could see the muscles in his face quivering with effort. He blinked slowly, amber eyes staring straight up at the sky, at the wheeling birds. They travelled over the jagged cliff face next, and came to rest on his black boots, half buried in the dark sand. Looking anywhere but the sea. It was then that Jaskier noticed that Geralt was opening his mouth every few seconds as well, to take a breath in. This struck him as odd; the Witcher far preferred breathing through his nose. Not only did it allow him to get a more accurate scent profile of the area, but it was much quieter. Jaskier had noticed this particular habit within the first five minutes of making Geralt’s acquaintance, and the man had never deviated from it. Until now. Something was definitely wrong. And it had to do with the sea. Jaskier decided to switch tactics.

“Say, I’d rather fancy a swim. Care to join me? It’s not like we’ve anywhere better to be.”

Jaskier knew he sounded insane. The waves pounded against the rocky shore, washing on and off the cruel, gritty sand. He was sure there were wicked tides here as well, the kind that would suck you right out to sea. The bay through which they were currently travelling was lined not only with cliffs but also with pillars of dark rock that ventured far out into the sea, standing like proud sentinels whirling with the busy cawing and foul stench of seabirds. 

He began to strip off his shirt, trying to ignore the gooseflesh that rippled up on his arms the moment they were exposed to the chill wind that whipped up off the sea, screaming along the cliffs in tune with the cacophonous birds. Geralt turned around and watched him, dark brows pulled together in confusion.

“Jaskier, you complain when the stream water is too cold for you to bathe in. I doubt even I could swim in this.”

“Ah, my dear Witcher, what’s life without a little risk?” Jaskier sincerely hoped his efforts would pay off before he actually had to dive into the freezing seas. There was gooseflesh appearing on his naked legs now as well.

Tossing his pants and shirt aside, hat carefully wrapped up to weigh them down and keep them from being blow away by the gale force winds, Jaskier winced as he made his way across the sand. It was harsh, and cut into the soles of his feet. Had he not spent so much time walking and developing callouses, he was sure it would have drawn blood. Geralt watched, a hand on Roach’s reins, an incredulous look on his face.

“What the fuck are you doing, Jaskier? You and I both know this is reckless and rash.”

Jaskier shrugged, wincing internally. It seemed he would have no choice but to face the water. He tried reassuring himself that it was for a good cause. That Geralt would never face up to his traumas without someone to help him along the way. It didn’t make the water any warmer, though.

He took a deep breath, nearly screeching as the water touched his toes. Instantly, his whole body began to tremble, on high alert. Every instinct in him told him to turn around, but it was rather too late. The ocean dropped off steeply from the shore, and Jaskier found himself submerged up to his waist, feet sucked out from under him by a strong undercurrent, ripping him out to sea. His heart began to pound. This situation had gone from mildly alarming to life threatening far too quickly. It was no longer an innocent game. 

“Geralt! Fuck, help!”

Jaskier was a strong swimmer, but the ocean current was far stronger, and it was sucking him down, away below the surface waves and with the water that was draining off the beach and back out to sea again. It was all he could do to keep his head above the water. Waves slapped him in the face, and he could taste salt coating his tongue and the back of his throat. It was freezing cold as well, and he coughed and choked, unable to keep calling Geralt’s name. He raised a pale arm, waving it about, hoping the Witcher would be able to see him.

The current was still pulling at his feet; Jaskier felt one of his boots rip free as he was sucked out into deeper water. No longer could he feel stones skimming by under his feet. Just empty, abyssal space. He tried to control his breathing, but he was already gasping for breath, heart pounding at a hundred miles a minute, and very quickly he began to spiral into a state of panic. The edges of his vision clouded over, turned black. The hand, which he still had raised over his head, had taken on a bluish tinge under the nails. Like a corpse. Jaskier choked and coughed and felt his insides rolling inside of him as he tried not to imagine what sorts of creatures could be swimming below him at this very instant, waiting for him to become weak enough that they could swoop in and make the kill. 

Just as he was about to give up and surrender his fight to stay at the surface, though, Jaskier felt a strong arm wrap around his waist. A flurry of splashing next to him, and Geralt’s face, deathly white, at his side. The Witcher’s hair was plastered to his scalp, and oddly enough, his eyes were squeezed tightly shut, even when he spoke. 

“Damn fool.”

The words were garbled and mixed with a good amount of sea water. Jaskier clung to him, trying not to push him under the surface, and realized that Geralt’s powerful legs were the only thing keeping both of them from being sucked further out to sea by the current. Jaskier quickly added in his own kicking, feeling very idiotic indeed, and more than a little weak with relief. He lent as much strength as he could as Geralt swam them back to shore, dragged Jaskier out of the water by his arm, and deposited him unceremoniously on the uncomfortably sharp sand. They were both gasping miserably, and for a moment it was all Jaskier could do just to stare at his hands, which were trembling, and try to regain his breath.

Then, he turned about, and his heart plummeted into his remaining boot.

Geralt was sitting in the sand, a little further up the beach. His head was buried in between his knees, and Jaskier could see that his shoulders were heaving far too much, even for the exertion he had just put himself through. Every inch of him shook, whether from cold or shock or something else altogether the bard was unsure. He hadn’t even made it to Roach, who was standing placidly by the base of the cliff, her reins dangling from a loose piece of rock. Geralt always made it back to Roach. Even when he was wounded and so dizzy from blood loss he could barely stand. 

Jaskier scrambled to his feet and ran to the Witcher so quickly he nearly slipped and landed face first in the sand. Geralt didn’t shift or give any indication that he had noticed it. He was wiping furiously at his eyes, Jaskier noticed, rubbing at them over and over again the way one would expect if he had gotten an irritant in them.

“Geralt? Are you…alright?”

The Witcher’s head jerked upright, and he stared at the bard with eyes that looked so reddened it was nearly impossible to tell where the whites had been. Even the rims were enflamed and dripping with tears.

“Melitele, Geralt, your poor eyes,” Jaskier reached up to wrap an arm around the other man’s shoulders, but was slapped away, “Come on, we’re both frozen. Shall we go make a fire and get into some dry clothes?”

Hot shame had settled in the pit of Jaskier’s stomach. Whatever he had intended to do by getting Geralt to follow him into the water, this was not it. The man looked miserable, absolutely wrecked. He stood obediently and followed Jaskier back to Roach, quietly waited while the bard extracted some dry clothes from her saddlebags, and dressed himself slowly, as though he were in a trance. His eyes continued to stream. Jaskier dressed quickly and snatched up the bundle of wood off the back of Roach’s saddle; Geralt had insisted they collect it before descending below the cliffs, saying that there would be no dry wood down here. It had been fortuitous, and clever. Jaskier made short work of the fire, and looked up to see Geralt still standing where he had left him, staring off into the middle distance with eyes that were still red and leaking.

“Come on, come over to the fire. It’s warmer there. Gods, Geralt, I didn’t mean for that to happen. I’m so very sorry. Please, talk to me. How can I make it up to you? What do you need?”

A tiny shudder wracked Geralt’s frame, and he allowed himself to be led to the fire. The pounding surf seemed deafening over his silence, but he leaned into Jaskier’s touch a bit, reaching up to wipe at his eyes again.

“Here, I’ve a handkerchief somewhere…because Gods know you probably don’t even own one.”

Jaskier pulled the thing out of his pocket and held it out to Geralt, but when it became clear the Witcher didn’t intend to take it, Jaskier took it upon himself to wipe away the tears seeping from his amber eyes.

“There, much better. Let me get you a blanket, alright? After all, you’re the one who jumped into that water fully clothed.”

Jaskier was still quite cold, but his shivers had abated as soon as he had stared the fire, and now that he was wrapped in his own blanket, he felt much better, if very ashamed. It alarmed him, though, that Geralt was still shivering, even in his dry clothes. The Witcher’s feet were bare; his boots being soaked through, but normally he warmed much faster than Jaskier was capable of. Gently, he wrapped the blanket around Geralt’s shoulders, hoping to ease the trembling somewhat. Geralt stared into the fire. He was picking at the skin on the inside of his thumb, a habit that often led to the shedding of a good deal of blood. Jaskier gently took his hand to stop it.

“Feeling better?”

“Hmm.”

“Can we talk? Because something is going on here, and I feel very left in the dark. Considering I’m veritably drowning in guilt right now, can you at least explain what’s happening with you?”

Geralt brought both of his hands up to his face and pressed against his eyes tiredly. His fingers shook, and he sighed. The fire danced and made ghoulish shadows on the cliffside, all the more prominent in the twilight. Jaskier shuffled closer, needing the physical contact, and Geralt did not pull away.

“It was the Trials.”

Geralt’s voice was so quiet that Jaskier had to lean in even more to catch his words. They shook a bit, and the bard found himself rubbing the Witcher’s knee. It felt like the right thing to do.

“In the Trials,” Geralt continued, “They enhanced my eyes. More than most. I was deemed strong enough to undergo another round. And before they start the procedure that improves our eyesight, they…washed our eyes. With saltwater. Well, it was more like drowning us. They would force us to keep our eyes open, and submerge us in the water, sometimes for minutes at a time. I can remember it, in my nose and my eyes and my ears. Breathing it in when my body overcame my mind and I gasped for breath, even though I knew very well there was no air. It burned down my throat and in my lungs and stomach. I can remember puking it up afterwards. But…getting it in my eyes was the worst. Like they were being scraped clean with a brush. My eyes are sensitive to salt, because of it.”

Jaskier gaped, and Geralt continued to shiver, burying his head between his palms now that he was done speaking. The bard squeezed his knee with a trembling hand, resisting the urge to simply wrap his arms around those broad shoulders and never let go.

“Gods…” Jaskier felt like he was going to be sick with guilt, “It’s been all of today, hasn’t it? The sea air, the way the salt sprays up on the wind and coats your throat. The way you can smell it on the breeze and feel it on your skin. And then…oh fuck, I made you get into that water, and you probably breathed it in just like during your Trials. Fuck, Geralt, I am so incredibly sorry. I wanted to know what was wrong, wanted you to talk about it because when you talk it sometimes helps you, but I swear, I never intended for this to happen, never. Fuck, I’m an insufferable idiot.”

Geralt remained silent, but it seemed the fight had gone out of him. He slumped over, leaning into Jaskier’s shoulder, curling up a bit and drawing the blanket up around him.

“What can I do to help your eyes? Do you need a potion, or something for the pain? They look very sore. Just tell me, and I’ll help you, alright?”

Geralt shrugged, a tiny movement almost hidden by the blankets.

“They’re just irritated. I can’t see very well at the moment. But the swelling will go down…in a day or so. There’s nothing else to be done.”

“Does the wind bother them?”

Geralt nodded a bit, burrowing his face further into the blanket. Struck by a sudden inspiration, Jaskier untied the sash from his doublet. It was made of black silk, very soft and slippery in his hands. An expensive accessory, but Jaskier could think of no better use for the thing than to help Geralt be more comfortable.

“I’m going to tie this around your eyes, alright? To keep the wind and the surf out of them, and to let them rest a bit. Is that alright?”

“Yes.”

Geralt lifted his head and exposed the back of it to Jaskier, allowing him to knot off the silk. The bard had to give a little laugh.

“You know…under very different circumstances, I can say I’ve dreamt of doing exactly this.”

Geralt’s lips twitched a bit, the first ghost of a smile that the bard had seen since they had been within sight of the coast. It assuaged his worry a bit.

“We’ll save that for another day, alright? Perhaps when your eyes aren’t seeping and red. Come here for now, and get some rest.”

Jaskier opened his arms, and Geralt slipped his body between them willingly, resting his head on the bard’s shoulder. His hands fussed with the tie on the makeshift blindfold for a moment, and then he sighed. Jaskier knew he had closed his eyes, and was about to do the same when he heard a sleepy murmur.

“It’s alright.”

“What’s that?”

“It’s alright. What you did. It was absolutely idiotic, and I’ll flay you alive if you ever do something like it again. You know better than to put your life in danger so recklessly. But I know you didn’t intend to…hurt me. So don’t keep yourself up all night with guilt. I can hear your heart, you know. It’s practically hammering out of your chest.”

“Ah, Geralt. I did something idiotic. Something which has unintentionally put you in a very bad way. I will feel guilty, and stupid, and sad, for a very long time, and there’s very little you can do about that. But thank you for saying it all the same.”


	19. Grieve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier receives some news.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooo...this piece requires some knowledge of the books; although I've given pretty much all the information you need to understand the basics of what's happened within the story. That being said, the more solid background from the books will probably help you out a bit here.
> 
> On another note, this completely broke my heart to write, so I hope you guys enjoy (my brokenhearted writing usually seems to get a good response on here...can't imagine why :D)
> 
> Enjoy! As always, your sweet comments and kudos are so appreciated and I'll try to get back to all of them as soon as I can.

When the news reached them, they were not even twenty miles from the edge of the plague infected region. In some ways, this made it feel far worse. That they had been so close, so nearby, and yet so unaware. 

The messenger came for Jaskier, pushing his way through the crowded inn and earning himself several dirty and downright dangerous looks on the way. Messengers were only ever willing to brave the ire of local men when they were carrying urgent tidings. And urgent tidings usually came in one form and one form alone: the news of the death of a loved one.

So, when the messenger tapped on Jaskier’s shoulder, the blood drained out of the bard’s face. He had been watching the young boy’s progress through the inn with a sort of concerned interest, feeling deep pity for the recipient of the news contained in the tiny envelope clutched in the boy’s grubby fist. When the messenger continued in his approach in their general direction, the bard had turned back to Geralt, who was burying himself in his cups. Jaskier had very little family who still loved him enough to advise him of their deaths, and those who did were far too young and rich to be dead yet. He was not concerned that the message was for him. After all, who would want to advise him of something ill?

Naturally, then, he thought the tap on the shoulder must be a mistake. He turned, about to give the boy an earful for not listening better to his employer’s descriptions more attentively. When he wheeled, face full of rage, he suddenly felt drained and cold. The boy’s countenance was grave. And it was full of recognition for the bard. There had been no mistake.

“What do you want?” Jaskier’s voice trembled far more than he would have liked. Despite the fact that the boy was young and grubby and very obviously in need of a few extremely generous tips, the bard felt like he was staring down the grim reaper. He could almost see the bony fingers, gripping tightly at the child’s shoulder. 

“It’s for you, sir. The bard Jaskier, performer and expert in all seven of the Liberal Arts?”

Struck a bit dumb with shock, Jaskier extended numb fingers to receive the letter, and dropped a handful of coins in the boy’s outstretched hat. His eyes widened and he dashed away, leaving the bard alone with the cursed piece of paper. Alone in a tavern full of people. Alone next to Geralt, who, arguably, he valued more than anyone else in his life. And yet, despite all this, Jaskier had never felt so utterly isolated. His heart thumped. 

Surely it could not be his sisters. They were all too young. Young and well tended by doctors, and all of them unmarried, so very little chance of having died in pregnancy or childbirth (Jaskier had inherited all the genes for nabbing unmarried men in their family). His mother and father would not bother to send news to their excommunicated child of their deaths. And while he had close friends at home in Oxenfurt, none of them would bother with the expense of a private messenger as opposed to just sending out a death certificate by the regular mail. 

Geralt looked over, and his eyes were already unfocused. Jaskier couldn’t really blame him; he had misread some signs in his latest hunt. While distracted by the false trail, a young woman had been abducted and murdered by the werewolf Geralt had been hired to exterminate. When he had received the news, Geralt had snatched up his swords and returned several hours later, no worse for wear physically. Emotionally, though, he was a wreck. For the past day, he had not spoke, except when he was so drunk that he likely wasn’t aware of the words (and healthy amount of drool) dripping from his mouth. It worried the bard, but he had been preoccupied simply trying to perform enough to keep them in the inn until Geralt had recovered himself a bit. So, Geralt had drunk, and Jaskier had played, and now Jaskier was sitting next to his ragingly inebriated friend, holding a letter between his fingers that likely carried horrible news. A small pain squeezed at the bard’s heart. Fingers trembling, he ripped the envelope, and unfolded the paper.

His mouth dropped open.

His heart seeped into his boots, dripped through the soles, and congealed in a sticky, broken mass on the floor. It lay there, quivering, almost laughing as a single tears broke free of Jaskier’s eye and tumbled after it. 

Grief, an overwhelming amount of it, swirled in his gut. The letter had contained news of the worst kind. Not about his sisters, but about someone that in many ways he considered his closer family, his blood bonded sister. And even worse, the bard knew Geralt would be devastated by the news. Not even a day after losing a girl out of an error of judgement. Jaskier tried to collect the pieces of his broken heart. He needed to be strong, so Geralt didn’t implode and self destruct. It certainly wouldn’t be the first time such a thing had happened.

The bard gently placed his fingers on Geralt’s leather-clad armour. The Witcher started, drunken state making him hyperaware to touch. His eyes fixed, rather dazedly, on Jaskier.

“Hmmm…Jaskier. You look…sad.”

The bard gave a broken little laugh, not wanting to admit how true it was.

“Come with me, Geralt. You’ve had enough to drink for one night. Let’s go down to the river, see if you can sober up before we go upstairs. Can’t have you breaking anything in our rented room I can barely afford as is. You’re a clumsy drunk, you know that?”

“Yes…”

Geralt looped his arm around Jaskier’s shoulders and leaned over, overbalancing nearly onto the bard’s back as he half carried the larger man out of the public house and down the street. After a few staggering moments of silence, he deposited Geralt on the dew damp grass next to the river, which was really more of a small creek. The moon shone, clear and cold, overhead, a lidless eye bearing witness to what was Jaskier’s, and soon to be Geralt’s, suffering.

Geralt slumped a bit to the side, fixing bleary eyes on the bard with the sort of intense interest that only comes along with extreme drunkenness. 

“Wha’s wrong, bard? Y’seem…off. And you’ve got a letter…”

“Yes, I have,” Jaskier stared down at the thing like it was his first time truly realizing it was still clenched in his sweaty fist, “I…I’ve had some news, Geralt.”  
“Mhmm?”

Jaskier began to reflect on the wisdom of telling Geralt this now, when he was well and truly pissed drunk. Though, in some ways the bard supposed it was more merciful.

“You remember the mermaid? Sh’eenaz? At the coast a few years ago?”

A slight dreamy, strange expression crossed the Witcher’s face as his eyebrows scrunched and he tried to remember. Then he nodded.

“Yes, and you remember the woman we met there? Essi Daven, the bard. We camped with her a night after we left. She was one of my old school friends.”

It took Geralt no time to remember that name. The moment Jaskier uttered it, his face cleared somewhat, and he seemed to be overcome by a fond memory. The bard knew he had been extremely fond of Essi. It hurt him to say what he needed to.

“There…there’s been a plague, in the North. And Essi, well, her family lived up at the North rim of the Continental coast. I suppose she had gone up to visit them, and, well, one thing led to another, and she got the plague. She…she died, Geralt. Apparently I was listed in her will as the person to contact should she meet an untimely end, so a letter was dispatched to me, along with some of her personal effects. They’re waiting for me in the North, to bury her. I have to leave tonight, Geralt. I’m so sorry.”

Geralt stared at the bard for a moment, uncomprehending. He blinked a few times, slowly. His hands clenched and unclenched a bit as well. He bit the inside of his cheek.

“Very well, bard.” Geralt suddenly seemed much more sober. He had got control of the slurring in his voice, and his eyes flashed clearly. Painfully.

“What?”

“Go. Write me when you’re back in Oxenfurt, and I’ll meet you, if you’d like.”

Geralt got to his feet with considerably difficulty; clearly he was still drunk enough that his sense of balance was completely off. Swaying, he steadied his hands on his knees and peered up at Jaskier through a curtain of silver hair. The bard had been so happy he had left it down tonight; it was sinfully beautiful in the candlelight. It seemed a shame to leave him, half drunk, with his hair down like a maiden at midsummer feast. For a moment, the bard wanted to forget Essi, and stay here, under the moonlight, forever. He shook himself free of his fanciful thoughts.

“Geralt…I know…about you and Essi. That is to say, I know, well, I know that you loved her. To a certain degree, at least. And there is absolutely no way that you are as alright with this as you’re pretending to be. You can’t fool me, Witcher. I’ve known you for far too long.”

“I’m fine, bard.”

Geralt cleared his throat, straightened on tottering legs, and stumbled back off towards the inn. Jaskier sighed. He was too tired to follow. He slumped, placing his head in his hands. Memories of Essi swirled through his mind. Her lute, her bright blue eye and the way her curls bounced when she laughed. The fun the had had together at the University, composing together in the water gardens and drinking at all the best inns after their classes were done for the day. No, he couldn’t be responsible for eking an emotional response out of Geralt right now. He was too lost in his memories with a woman he had loved like a sister. Gods, he hadn’t even been there to hold her in her final moments. 

Releasing a sob, Jaskier pillowed his head between his arms, pressing up against them until his neck ached form the strain. Every part of him was miserable and hurting. He simply wanted to hold Essi again. Congratulate her on a good ballad. Gods, he would even take seeing her win at the annual Oxenfurt Bardic Competition. She had always smiled very prettily when she won, cheeks reddened with an endearing blush that belied her deep capability and power. 

Eventually, with tears rolling down his face, Jaskier fell asleep, sitting upright in the dewy grass, under the hollow light of the moon.

\----

The next morning, the bard was making his way across the field to the tavern, massaging his sore muscles and grimacing miserably, when he heard something odd. Wincing at the sudden turn of his head, he hurried across to the stables and peered in at a high window. There should not have been anyone awake at this hour of the morning, especially not after last night’s revelries. Someone awake and talking was almost too much to believe.

There was a part of him that already knew what he would find, he supposed. Because even Geralt couldn’t be that out of touch with himself. Give him a night to sober up and consider the implications of what Jaskier had told him, and even he had to be feeling some sort of emotion. Emotion enough to seek comfort in talking to Roach, apparently.

Jaskier slipped around to the front of the stables and eased himself in the sliding doors, treading lightly, ears attuned. He was worried for his friend, yes, but he didn’t want to interrupt a moment that he was not welcome in.

Geralt turned on him before the bard had any chance to hear what was being said. His cheeks were ruddy, far brighter than they normally were, and his eyes were bright and wide as well. He looked like a small child, bright-eyed and afraid. Jaskier wondered if any of his love interests had ever died before. The only one he had known of besides Essi and, occasionally, himself, was Yennefer. And as a sorceress, she was, for all intents and purposes, immortal. At least, in any sort of timeframe that Jaskier understood.

“I thought I heard you talking in here. Are you quite well? Sobered up alright after last night?”

Geralt nodded. His eyes were still wide and unblinking.

“I suppose you’re here to gather your things before you go.” His voice was stiff, and strangely muffled. It made the bard’s heart ache. Grief radiated off Geralt in heaps, and it was nearly unbearable.

“No, not yet. I’ll leave later today. I just wanted to make sure everything was alright.”

“Fine.”

The bard didn’t want to turn away. In fact, he had never wanted to badly to simply run up to Geralt and hold him, brush a hand through his still-loose hair and tell him that he would get through this; that it hurt but in the end everything would be alright. But he knew Geralt would reject such a gesture, even from him. He turned away, sighing a bit.

“I’ll be in the inn, if you need me. Just gathering my things together. And before I forget, there are some contracts around Oxenfurt. I seem to remember a necrophage infestation terrorizing one of the outlying village. Go to the city for a few months, stay in my rooms at the University. I’ll see you there when I’m done. It said in this paper, that Essi left something for you. It seems only right that I bring it to you as soon as I can.”

“Essi…left something?”

Jaskier nodded. He remembered the pearl Geralt had given her all those years ago. In the consecutive times he had seen her, she had never been without it. And he doubted it would be anywhere but directly by her side when she was laid to rest in a rock cairn outside her tiny hometown. 

“Of course she left something for you, Geralt. She loved you.”

The bard thought he heard a small exhalation as he walked slowly away. Not of relief, but more of a wall breaking, splitting and cracking open down the centre. It pained him, to know that Geralt would most likely keep repairing that wall until after Jaskier left, and he could fall apart in peace. But at least he would allow himself to fall apart. Jaskier vowed to make it back in time to pick up the pieces.


	20. Far Afield

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt is lost in a storm, and about ready to give up. Then, he remembers why he can't.
> 
> CW: Animal death. Yes, it broke me too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my short little ditty for Day 20 of Whumptober: Field Medicine. As always, I appreciate all your kind words and kudos and reading this story so much!! Thank you so much for all your support over the last few weeks; we're in the home stretch now!

There were a limit to the abilities of enhanced senses. For all their strengths, Geralt had never known himself to have even a single advantage upon humans when he was exposed to such conditions as the ones he was facing now. His nose could navigate him through a forest on scent alone, and his ears were so sensitive that they could pick up on the way sounds bounced off structures, allowing him to create an image of any space he was enclosed in inside his mind, even if he were completely blind. But now, surrounded by the blinding snow of a torrential Northern blizzard, Geralt could not smell. His nose was clogged with frozen mucus, which had dripped down his face and nearly covered his mouth as well. His hearing was similarly impaired; the whirling snow muffled everything like a blanket, making it impossible to hear anything beyond the whirling, screaming quilt of white. Even the snow under his feet looked the same; had he backtracked on himself, he doubted he would have been able to find his own footprints. The wind was too swift to cover them up, dissolve them back into the shapeless land of white in which Geralt had found himself. Everything was eerie, faraway. It was as though Geralt were trapped, while someone simply shut out the world like one extinguished the flame in a lamp. It was torturous.

Roach had died some time ago. The passing of the hours all blended together inside this swirling vortex of screeching silence, but Geralt knew he must have been lost for a considerable time if his sturdy mare had lacked the strength to go on. He had wanted to bury her, but the wind would simply uncover her corpse again. Best not to waste his energy. So he had left her, lying stiff on her side, glassy eyes devoid of any of their liquid warmth. She had been a good steed. Reliable, and always willing to follow her master. Even when it led to her death, it seemed. Geralt felt a pang of something in his stomach. It was pain, but this was odd, because he had not suffered any injury to his abdomen. Perhaps it was the hunger. He had been many days without food. Under normal circumstances, this would have been fine. However, his body was working furiously to keep him warmed inside the icy winds of the blizzard. It was only a matter of time before it was no longer capable.

Part of Geralt wanted just to sit down. He was so very tired, and he had twisted his knee somewhere back, tripping over a stone that had been hidden in the snow. Lacking the mental wherewithal and supplies to treat it properly, Geralt had removed one of the wraps from around his calf and tied a hasty figure eight to keep the limb supported. It had not worked very well. The thing was swollen, and twinged even though it should have been numb from cold. Geralt could barely walk, he was so stiff. 

A few times, he had sat. Exhausted, not thinking straight, he had collapsed into the snow, promising himself a short break, a respite from pushing through the wind that resisted him at every turn. After the way it had cut through his coat, the wrapped-up protection of sinking into the snow had been welcome. It had held his aching knee, warmed him a bit. This was worrying in and of itself. Snow was not meant to be warming. Quite the opposite. And yet, Geralt simply couldn’t bring himself to care about such trivialities. 

He stumbled now, and found himself once again flat on his ass in the snow. It had all happened very quickly. Geralt shook himself, and subsided into the warmth of it. He looked at his hands. They were white, with a bluish tint under the nails. Also not a good sign. Corpses looked this way, when they were recovered as frozen husks from high in the mountains. Perhaps Geralt wasn’t that far off from becoming one of those corpses. This was comforting, in a strange way. He had spent so many years fighting, and losing. Losing against Renfri, and Stregobor. Losing Ciri, over and over again. Losing Milva, fighting against and losing constantly to Yennefer. Perhaps he could just give up. Unconvinced though he was of any sort of afterlife, he hoped the members of the Hansa who he had lost would be waiting for him. He hoped he would be allowed to wait for Ciri, so he could welcome her when her time came.

Lying back, Geralt traced a lazy hand through the air above him. The wind buffeted his weak arm from side to side, and he hadn’t the ability to fight it anymore. He was simply too tired, and the wind was beginning to sound calming, like a mother crooning to her baby before he fell asleep. Geralt wondered if Visenna had ever sung to him like that. Had he been unwanted from the day he was born, or had there been a time when she had looked at him and felt some sort of attachment? The type of attachment that made a mother sing to her son. Geralt had felt that for Ciri. But only because he had been spurred on by Visenna’s betrayal. Determined to do better for his daughter than his own mother had done for him.

Gods. Ciri. 

Something about the way her face floated in front of Geralt’s vision gave him a sudden jolt. She was still missing, he remembered. Still in danger. And while the idea of waiting for her in whatever came next, caught up in blissful limbo, was appealing, Geralt couldn’t leave his daughter. Not while she was still in danger in this life, and he could do something to make sure she was spared. Anything less would be abandonment. Just like what Visenna had done to him. And he had promised himself he would be better. 

With shaking hands, Geralt tested the bandage on his knee. It was slipping apart, and he took a moment to adjust it, wincing at the pain that shot through his nearly numb leg. It was miserable work, trying to tighten the wrap over his swollen joint, but he couldn’t let up. If he let himself stop fighting now, Geralt knew he might never start again.

Once his knee was properly supported, Geralt took a moment to try to get his bearings. He must be near to Kaer Morhen. If he had strayed too far, he would have simply fallen off a cliff and been found in some Kaedweni valley by a very surprised farmer. He had only been on his way back from the nearby lake when the blizzard had hit, and he had continued on in what he knew for sure was the right direction for some time. 

Slowly, agonizingly, Geralt got to his feet. His knee hurt, and he had to brace a hand against it to keep from collapsing back into the snow again. He was limping so heavily he knew there was something seriously wrong. But he had wrapped it, and until he got back to the keep, got back to his brothers, this was the best he could do. 

Hoping he wouldn’t accidentally stray too far, Geralt tried to orient himself. Then, he continued in the direction of the castle, hoping for Ciri’s sake that his senses had not betrayed him.


	21. Chronic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt left Brokilon too soon. Pushed himself too hard. Everyone in the Hansa knows this, but only Dandelion is willing to speak up when he sees how the Witcher is suffering for their punishing pace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ATTENTION!
> 
> It’s been a hot minute since I read the books, so I’m a bit nervous posting a totally book-verse fic like this one. Any inaccuracies you find, PLEASE feel free to let me know and they’ll be changed. That being said, if you haven’t read the books, you may wanna sit this one out, because it might be a wee bit confusing. 
> 
> Also...I love Milva. I need more of her. She’s fantastic.

“Fuck.”

Geralt stumbled to a stop for what must have been the seventh time that day. The rest of the company continued on, trying to inconspicuously ignore that anything was wrong with the Witcher. His mood had been outright horrendous the last few days, and all of them knew to tread very lightly around him. Even Milva, who knew the exact cause of his discomfort, having visited him several times during his convalescence in Brokilon, remained silent. Let him suffer, she thought. If he was too proud to admit he was in pain, it would be his own undoing. Surely, he would go to someone for help before it became debilitating. To ignore an injury in the conditions they were living in could be a death sentence not only for him, but for every member of their company as well. Milva knew well enough that Geralt would never let such a thing happen. Not while he had any say in it. 

She looked over her shoulder, just to make sure the Witcher hadn’t fallen to the ground, senseless. He had been pale all morning, sweating and tired looking since the moment he had rolled over in his bedroll after what looked to be a sleepless night. It was only a matter of time before he was forced to admit that there was something wrong.

When he caught Milva’s eye, Geralt shot her a look. She arched an eyebrow, and fiddled with a knot of hair distractedly, unbothered by his venom. He had been in a foul mood for weeks. She did not plan to take responsibility for that, now or ever. Let him limp on miserably. It was not her fault he was too proud to seek aid. Though she did see some of herself in him. It was a revelation she was trying her best not to give too much thought. After all, her own problems were already weighing heavily on her mind. Soon, they would be weighing on her body as well.

The vampire hung back for a moment, and he also caught Milva’s eye with those strange orbs of his. She felt a thought penetrate her psyche, and immediately she understood Regis’ intentions. Unbothered, she turned back to focus on her own path. The vampire would make sure Geralt didn’t die. After all, he was a healer. It was an irony which, had Milva been prone to that sort of thing, she might have found exceedingly funny. 

When they next stopped for water, Geralt was all but leaning on Regis. The vampire seemed unconcerned by this; it was probably no burden at all on his body. Once again, the other members of the company stared at their boots, hoping it would simply pass. Geralt’s pain always did; eventually he would suppress it and pretend it had never happened. Even Dandelion was more than aware of that, despite his best intentions to make it not so. The bard was not going to fight that particular battle. Not when the Witcher was so obviously weighed down by far heavier inconveniences than the ache in his knee.

After they had eaten, though, Geralt limped over and seated himself next to the bard. He looked pale, but better than he had in the morning. It was the first time he had invited conversation with any of his travel companions in several days, and Dandelion felt rather pressured. After all, a simple slip of the tongue could send Geralt spiralling back into silence. He was already convinced he was better off without them.

“Regis give you something for the pain?”

“Yes.”

“That’s good, you know. There was a time when you never would have been caught dead taking something to take the edge off, let alone admitting to it.”

Geralt fixed Dandelion with a tired gaze, and the bard started as a sudden, aching realization hit him.

“You…you are alright, aren’t you? I mean, you weren’t supposed to leave Brokilon yet. Are you healed?”

“For the most part. Just in a great deal of pain.”

Dandelion nodded and they simply sat for a while, in a companionable silence. Cahir and Milva were chatting quietly with one another, and Regis was sat off by himself, gazing into the middle distance. The vampire looked pensive, concerned even.

“Have you asked him about a permanent cure? Something to keep you from feeling all this damn pain every time you move? It’s ridiculous, Geralt, a man like yourself incapacitated by something as simple as a sore knee.”

“I know. And no.”

They lapsed again after that, and it became clear that no one was going to call for a continuation of their march that day. The sunlight morphed into a crepuscular twilight, where the forest began to come alive, tiny specks of movement and light dancing to and fro like so many seeds caught on a breeze. Next to him, Dandelion saw Geralt begin to rub at his knee, now that the cover of darkness would prevent their companions from seeing what he was doing.

“I could do that, you know. If you wanted to try to get some sleep.”

Geralt stopped, though his hands stayed fixed on the joint.

“It’s enflamed. You’ll probably just make it worse.”

“No, really, I won’t. I used to have an aunt, back when I was a boy at Lettenhove. She had the most terrible arthritis in her knees. I used to rub them for her, with hot compresses. She always told me it did her a world of good.”

“You’re comparing me to your aged aunt with rheumatism?”

“Well…”

Geralt thrust his knee into Dandelion’s field of vision without any further questions. He looked absolutely defeated, and so tired. His eyes were nearly falling shut as he sat.

“I suppose you can’t make it hurt any more.”

“Come, sit down on the ground so you can lean your back against that log. You may as well try to sleep while I’m doing this. I do remember it always put my aunt right out, whenever I would do it for her. Like a lamp, blown out in a breeze.”

Geralt allowed himself to slide off the log and land with a rather ungraceful bump on the leafy ground, grimacing and rubbing at his elbow as it jolted. He looked sceptical, but too tired to argue about it.

“I can’t sleep. The pain will go away eventually, and then I’ll get some rest. It’s been this way for months.”

“Geralt, it’s getting worse as the weather changes. Even I can tell, and I’m no healer. If you can, try to sleep. I expect it won’t be better for some time, unless Regis manages to find something that helps.”

Geralt sighed and shrugged, leaning his head back against the log. He closed his eyes, but Dandelion had been watching him close his eyes for nights. Just because he had taken on a restful position didn’t mean he was asleep. Far from it, in fact.

This was no time for being gentle. Dandelion’s aunt had always reprimanded him for his gentleness, saying her muscles were so tight that she would need a firm touch to even feel it. So, when he began, Dandelion began with no mercy, digging his fingers straight into Geralt’s knee. He could feel the tension held there, the muscles so stretched and strained that they would likely never fully recover. The more he felt, the more Dandelion became convinced that Geralt had been in no state to stand, let alone leave when he had walked out of Brokilon. Even now, the man was travelling on an all but still-broken leg. 

Dandelion could see Geralt gritting his teeth, could feel the way every muscle in his whole body was tense under his strong troubadour’s hands. But he pressed on. Geralt would not stop until he had found Ciri, even if it meant dragging himself all the way to Nilfgaard on broken limbs. The bard resolved to have a conversation with Regis at some point over the next day. They needed to find a way to get Geralt’s pain in check, preferably before his limbs really were in such dire straits.

\----

As it turned out, Dandelion was able to steal a moment with Regis far sooner than he had expected. After about five minutes of him running his hands deep into Geralt’s pained and stressed muscles, the Witcher’s head had slumped back against the support of the trunk he was leaned against. His pale hands even went slack, releasing the death grip they had held on his thigh, directly above the injured area. Dandelion leaned back and allowed a small smirk to play across his lips. Geralt was exhausted, and it was good he was getting the rest he so badly needed.

Settling the Witcher’s leg back down on the ground, Dandelion eased himself stealthily off the ground and retreated without turning his back. Geralt’s fouler moods often left him prone to nightmares, and Dandelion had been on the receiving end of his confusion far more times than he cared to admit. It usually ended violently, and the bard knew now never to leave Geralt in his blind spot, even while he was asleep.

When he had finally distanced himself enough, Jaskier appraised the campsite and quickly found Regis, sequestered off by himself at the edge of the pool of light cast by the fire. The vampire could almost always be found on his own. Despite the events they had endured that had convinced them that he was not a real danger, it was clear the group still didn’t consider Regis one of their own. It was a fact that the vampire was maddeningly calm about. Dandelion, who couldn’t bear for anyone to bear any sort of dislike against him, couldn’t understand how Regis was so relaxed about the whole affair. He did his best, though, to approach the him regularly, to make him feel as one with them. It would not do to be more divided than they already were. 

The bard squatted down next to Regis, who looked up from picking at his nails after a moment, face arranged into a look of mildly concerned curiosity.

“Bard? Was there something with which I could be of assistance?”

“Ah, yes, there was. You see, I’ve just come from Geralt. He’s in a great deal of pain from that knee, you know. I’m not sure how much longer he’s going to be able to continue like this. And, since he won’t ask you himself, I’m here to see if there’s perhaps a way you could make his pain tolerable enough that he can still travel and fight?”

Regis nodded, and Dandelion got the sense that he had already known all of this, that he had known what the bard was going to ask before he had even come over here. It was very disconcerting, and Dandelion took a moment to repair his nerves before looking back up into Regis’ pale, serious face again.

“I will need time. But I have the sense that Geralt will need a few days to recover his strength before we continue on, yes?”

“He’ll not be pleased, but yes. He’s in no condition to travel and he’s intelligent enough to know when he needs to stop and rest.”

“I will pool my resources, and see if there is anything that can be done.”

Dandelion nodded and stood, almost respectfully, thanking Regis for his continued aid. He stepped back, and excused himself to the fire, sitting down next to Milva. Her knife scraped along the shaft of a new arrow she had carved out of a stick. Her hair hung down, obscuring her face and presenting an uncharacteristically loose version of her. She looked up when Jaskier sat down, but continued on with her carving for another few moments before acknowledging his presence any further than that.

“His leg is troubling him, isn’t it?”

Dandelion nodded, feeling frustrated for having left his lute off with Geralt, who was sitting well out of the campfire’s light. He needed something to do with his hands, something to stop his fidgeting. He knew the constant movement of his fingers drove Milva nearly to distraction.

“He should not have left the forest so soon. He was barely recovered, barely able to make it around the clearing just a month ago. Recklessness like this could have disastrous results for us all.”

“I’ve spoked to Regis about it. He said he would try to find a remedy for it. We’ll need to stay here a few days, you know. For Geralt to recover his strength.”

“And thus putting us several more days behind his daughter. As well as all of the other damned things he’s seeking.”

“He’ll not be happy about it.”

Milva snorted and went back to her whittling. Their whole conversation, she had not looked up at the bard, and now when Dandelion peered at her face more closely, he saw there was a strange sort of wet, glistening quality to it. It was as though she had been crying. But dryads did not cry, and Milva had proven again and again that she was no stranger to suppressing all of her thoughts and feelings. She was fatally similar to Geralt in that respect.

Knowing she would not appreciate his concern, Dandelion didn’t inquire about the tears. As one of his professors had once told him, the truth would out. If it was something that would affect the group as a whole, Milva was intelligent enough to know that she could not keep such information to herself. Trying to shake himself of the worry he felt for the woman he had come to consider a friend, the bard leaned back, intending to fall asleep right there near the fire. He hoped Geralt would manage to rest long into the following morning, seeing as there would be no chance of them departing at their usual hour. The Witcher was drawn and exhausted, and he surely needed to repair some of his depleted resources. Dandelion only hoped he would take the time and opportunity presented to him to recover a bit of his strength.

\----

The next morning, Dandelion awoke slowly, and realized with some surprise that he was one of the first ones up and about. Milva was in his peripheral vision, abdomen rising and falling rhythmically. Regis didn’t seem to sleep but he would often disappear for hours at night. Presumably to go somewhere where he could gather his senses and meditate for a bit. Dandelion had heard him and Geralt discussing meditation once, and had heard enough to know that the vampire found it to be an effective method for curbing some of his more…animalistic urges.

Cahir was fast asleep as well, slumped against a tree a little ways away. The Nilfgaardian had his hand on his blade, as though he had fallen asleep prepared to be woken at a moment’s notice. The man was ever suspicious, even when resting. Dandelion found it exhausting to watch. There was no way someone could remain both that vigilant and healthy at the same time. It was only a matter of time before Cahir dropped dead of exhaustion.

“Morning.”

Dandelion half jumped out of his skin; he had been so preoccupied thinking about Cahir that he had not noticed Geralt, reclining against a log near the fire, sipping on some cold tea from the night before. 

“Melitele, Geralt, you gave me a fright. Perhaps some warning is in order next time you decide to lurk so close to the campfire?”

A small grin quirked at the Witcher’s lips. It seemed that, despite his tendency to rise well before dawn, he had gotten a good rest at last. The dark smudges under his eyes were far less apparent, and he looked a bit less pale, although still decidedly unwell.

“You would have noticed me, eventually. Waste of breath.”

Dandelion allowed Geralt his joke, mostly relieved to see the man on his feet again. Besides, he had no desire to wake Milva by speaking loudly so close to her sleeping form. They had been days without a proper night’s rest. She needed to take all the time she could manage to regain her strength.

“Feeling better this morning?” Dandelion moved in to settle on the ground next to Geralt, speaking softly so as not to wake the others. Geralt flexed his leg and grimaced, wrapping his hands instinctually around the knee.

“Less tired. Pain’s about the same.”

Dandelion nodded sympathetically, wishing that there was something he could do to assuage Geralt’s pain a bit. Unfortunately, the man was absolutely averse to opiates and narcotics, and those were the only pain relieving drugs that the bard happened to have on hand. Along with a goodly amount of fisstech, but he had never seen Geralt partake, and knew the Witcher would probably experience negative effects as the drug wreaked havoc on his already highly attuned senses.

“Does it help to get up and walk around? So the muscles don’t get stiff?”

“Clearly. Because I’ve been sitting on my ass for the last few weeks as we traipsed across the countryside.”

The bard took back whatever thoughts he had had earlier about Geralt’s mood improving after a night’s sleep. The Witcher was still simply begging for an argument, and Dandelion didn’t want to give him that satisfaction. It would only go to prove what Geralt wanted so badly to be true; that he was better off alone, and that the Hansa should leave him in peace. It was an option Dandelion simply would not entertain.

“Well, I’ll make some tea, at least. I can add some willow bark, perhaps it’ll numb it a little.”

Geralt nodded, and before Dandelion had a moment to register what he was doing, the Witcher had struggled to his feet and was limping heavily off in the direction of the stream a little East of their camp.

“Geralt,” Dandelion hissed after him, still loath to wake Milva and Cahir, “What in the sweet Mother’s name are you doing?”

“Getting water. For tea.”

Geralt continued on, his gait so uneven that Dandelion was convinced he was going to trip into a tree. One of the Witcher’s large hands was coiled tightly around his thigh, and there were blood vessels bulging in the back of his neck. The bard heaved himself to his feet and hurried after him.

“Go sit down! Those muscles are weak, and unhealed, and if you ever want to reach Ciri then you need to sit, and rest, and try to keep on recovering. You’re no good to your child surprise if you wind up dead or incapacitated before you can even find her.”

Geralt grunted and lurched to a stop. Once his momentum was gone, he seemed incapable to regaining it, so he turned and simply stood, staring longingly back at the tree stump and the fire. Dandelion heaved a sigh, slipped under Geralt’s arm, and helped him limp back to the place he had previously occupied. 

“I’ll be back. Rest that damn knee.”

Dandelion retrieved the water as quickly as he could, and put on some willow bark to boil over the fire. Milva and Cahir slept on, but Regis had returned while he was away at the stream. The vampire and Witcher had moved a bit further away from the fire, and were deep in conversation. Occasionally, Regis would bend down and run his long, pale fingers over Geralt’s knee and elbow, frowning as he assessed the damage. Then, he would ask what appeared to be questions, to which Geralt would nod wearily, either yes or no. He looked half dead, supported against a tree, head tipped back and facing skyward. Dandelion, as preoccupied as he was with tending the tea and the fire, thought he saw Geralt nod off a few times. Each time it only took a gentle shake from Regis to waken him again, but the fact that he was that tired at all was enough to concern the bard. He leaned over the fire, trying to distract himself. Whatever was going on with Geralt, surely a healer like Regis had it well in hand. 

Later that night, after a day of repairing weapons and clothes, and cleaning what supplies had not broken or been lost, the group was gathered around the fire. Dandelion, from his vantage point near Geralt, saw Regis slip the Witcher something, a cordial which he poured into his water skin. He drank, and both vampire and bard watched with interest as he flexed the muscles in his knee and arm, increasing his range of motion when there was little pain. He nodded at Regis, grateful. Milva, Cahir and Dandelion looked on as well, and said nothing. Later that night, as Milva sat by herself, poking at the dying embers of the fire with a stick, a strange feeling struck her. Geralt was prowling the perimeter of the camp, having taken up the first shift guarding the clearing. He looked as though he leg had never caused him pain; the limp was so small now that it was barely noticeable. But as Milva watched him, the way he stopped and swung his head like a wild thing, scenting the air, she sensed that they had not addressed the root of the issue. Whatever physical pain Geralt was experiencing had been cured. But there was something more, something that was drawing the rift between himself and his company wider with every passing moment. And Milva needed to find out what it was, if they were going to survive.

And irony, she thought, what with the secret she was keeping from them. But, she supposed, Geralt’s issues were more dire. Hers, they could wait a while yet.


	22. High

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Used to the various smells that float around backwater taverns, Geralt doesn't realize someone has played a dangerous joke on him. Luckily, Jaskier saves the day.
> 
> CW: Noncon drug use.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooo this turned from like a mildly cracky fic to suuuuper angsty really quickly and I'm not really sure how I feel about it other than that I had way too much fun writing it. That being said, I hope you enjoy! And as always, I LOVE receiving all your lovely comments and kudos, they completely make my day!! Will try to respond to them all ASAP. Thanks so much for reading.

The moment the bard took a breath, the moment he stopped performing even for a split second, he knew there was something wrong. His eyes sought out Geralt in the crowd. Not because he needed the Witcher’s approval. Not because he cared. He just wanted to make sure his friend hadn’t returned to their rented room upstairs. Jaskier had forfeited his key on the notion that he planned to get horribly drunk that night, and couldn’t afford to re-key this inn. So, Geralt had the keys, and Jaskier stopped playing to find him, simply to make sure his fillingless pie hadn’t caused the Witcher to seek cover, and the moment he did, he knew there was something horribly, truly wrong.

Geralt was leaned over his bowl of stew, swaying back and forth to some sort of rhythm, even though there was no more music in the room now that Jaskier had ceased singing. He looked well in his cups. But that simply couldn’t be the case; the bard had only been performing for about forty minutes, and it took Geralt hours to get himself well and properly drunk. Even on strong spirits. The man’s tolerance to alcohol was alarmingly high.

“Ah, sorry folks, but I’m going to need to cut my performance short for the time being,” Jaskier took an elaborate bow here, trying to tune out the groans and outright yells of irritation from the inn’s patrons, “But I assure you, I’ll be back tomorrow, and with several more drinking songs to share with you fine people!”

There was a polite round of applause at this, and then people turned back to their conversations and their drink, shaking their heads at the bard who could not even be bothered to provide entertainment for an hour. Said bard slipped through the crowd, receiving some coins from some well-meaning patrons and thanking them graciously. He settled on the bench opposite Geralt and leaned down with his elbows on the table. The Witcher did not stir, one finger drawing idle circles in his untouched stew.

“Geralt? Are you drunk? Already?”

This seemed to cause the Witcher a great deal of amusement, because he snorted explosively, spewing a good amount of the weak tavern ale back into his mug. His gloved fist smacked at the table far too hard, and a few people turned and shot concerned looks in their direction. Jaskier smiled awkwardly and waved them off, trying to pretend that everything was fine, when it could not have been further from the truth.

“Melitele, Geralt. What’s going on?”

Geralt looked up, his head very lopsided, and propped his chin on his fist. He looked very clumsy and off balance; Jaskier was tempted to reach out and grab his shoulder.

“Nothing…songbird. ‘M fine. Never been…better.”

He smiled a bit too broadly then, and slumped to the side. Jaskier had to lunge across the table to keep him from becoming rapidly acquainted with the filthy tavern floor. 

“The room’s…moving, Jask.”

The bard vaulted over the table and pushed up Geralt against him. The Witcher’s head flopped uselessly on his shoulder, and Geralt looked desperately confused about how he had ended up in such a strange position.

“It’s not the tavern that’s moving, Geralt. Come on, we’re going back upstairs. I can’t believe I willingly allowed you to take my room keys, if you were planning on getting this fucked. Bloody irresponsible.”

They managed to limp their way across the floor to the base of the stairs, at which point Jaskier exhaled loudly, and shot a winning smile at a young and very muscular farm lad leaning against the wall.

“Say, my friend here seems to have managed to get himself into…well, rather a state. You wouldn’t mind helping him with the stairs, would you? I’m afraid my muscles are, well, they’re better suited to other tasks.”

He looked up at the lad between his lashes then, and the boy blinked, his cheeks going pink as he caught the bard’s meaning. His lips quirked up a bit, and he returned Jaskier’s gaze, a firm hand closing on one of the bard’s buttocks. He shuddered a bit. It had been a while since he had been intimate with someone. Far too long.

“Mmm…d’n need help.” Geralt slurred blearily, looking up at the farmhand and Jaskier with eyes that were far too vulnerable, far too dazed and exhausted.

“I’m afraid you do tonight, Geralt. Come on, try to manage with the stairs. We can’t carry you up all on our own.”

Geralt mostly ended up dragging his boots and tripping on the edges of the stairs, and the farmhand stayed to help Jaskier get the Witcher to their rooms. The two of them deposited the far larger man on the soft bed, and Jaskier turned about.

“I’ll meet you tomorrow. Wait at the bar, and I’ll get us a room. Think of it as…a favour.”

“I look forwards to it,” the farmhand whispered lustfully into his ear, “You’re a pretty boy. A daresay you’d look even prettier tied up.”

He gave Jaskier a good hard squeeze before exiting the rooms, leaving the bard feeling very flustered and suddenly hot as well. He fanned at himself, wondering when he had become so red in the face. Shaking himself a bit, like a wet dog, he tried to leave the feeling behind him. Geralt was far from himself, and Jaskier wasn’t sure if it would be prudent to blame his state on alcohol alone. It was very difficult to drug a Witcher. But it was not impossible, and Geralt had seemed very tired and supple when they had arrived at the inn. It was possible someone had slipped him something in his food without his senses being sharp enough to catch it.

“Geralt? Did anything about your meal seem off tonight? I can’t believe you drank yourself into this state in forty minutes.”

The Witcher was rolling his head back and forth on the pillow. His eyes didn’t seem to be tracking quite right; they were always a few paces behind the movement of his head. Jaskier placed a hand on the other man’s forehead to stop his compulsive movement.

“Geralt. I need you to pay attention. I know you probably feel very strange, but this is important. I need to know if someone though it would be funny to lace your food with something harmless, or if someone is trying to poison you, alright?”

“I…the stew. It was…strong. Tasted…like lightening. On my tongue.”

Geralt licked his lips, as though perhaps some of the flavour remained there. Jaskier groaned the moment he heard the description. Harmless, yes. But a massive pain for both himself and for Geralt, once he began to come down from whatever strange high he was on.

“Fisstech. Some bastard thought it would be funny to give you fisstech in that stew. Fuck, Geralt, I’ll kill them all.”

Geralt blinked, seemingly undisturbed by this news. In fact, after a moment of what seemed to be bemused confusion, a smile that was entirely too open and broad split across his face. Jaskier almost had to double to check to make sure it was still his friend there. He rarely ever smiled like this, and it was both frightening and very endearing.

“’S good, Jaskier. I feel…like ‘m floating.”

He flopped back on the bed then, staring dazedly up at the ceiling. His cheeks were very red, and Jaskier had to run a careful hand over his forehead to make sure he wasn’t running a fever on top of it all. All the while, Geralt beamed up at nothingness, breaths huffing softly up into the air.

“Yes, I’m sure you do right now. But they’ve given you a high dose without you having any resistance to it. That is, unless you have a secret you’re not telling me. But even with your high tolerance to poisons and drugs, this will have a brutal effect on you. I expect that if you were an ordinary man, you’d be dead by dawn.”

Once again, this news didn’t seem to set any alarm bells ringing in Geralt’s brain. He lay on his back, absolutely transfixed by the boards in the ceiling. He lifted a hand, tracing patterns in the air and snorting obscenely as his shoulder clicked in and out of place, the result of an old injury. Jaskier had to smile as well. There was a part of him that felt very privileged to be here. It was not every day that he got to see Geralt so lose, so undeniably happy. It was a strange sight, and not one the bard wanted to forget. As sorry as the reason for his happiness was, Jaskier wanted to let Geralt revel in it a bit, before the comedown. The man didn’t have nearly enough opportunities to let loose.

So, the bard found himself flopped down next to Geralt on the bed, watching as the Witcher’s hand repeated the same pattern over and over again, faster and slower. His eyes followed it, seemingly hypnotized. His body shook with silent laughter, and at one point he rolled towards the bard, tears of mirth in his eyes.

“Fuck…m’arm’s funny. It’s all…loose. Weak.”

Jaskier smiled as Geralt rolled back to face the ceiling, allowing himself to place a hand on the Witcher’s trembling shoulder.

“That’s…good. Just lie back and try to relax.”

In Jaskier’s own experience with fisstech, the euphoria would be short lived, replaced by paranoia and fear. He hoped Geralt was enjoying the bubbly high of the drug while he could. The bard hardly dared to think of what was going to happen next.

It took far less time than he would have liked for it to happen, as well. One moment, Geralt was all smiles, laughing at some hallucination or feeling that was beyond his ability to communicate to Jaskier. Then, suddenly, he stilled. Sensing what was happening, Jaskier held out his arms. It still shocked him a bit, though, when Geralt slipped willingly into them. His eyes were wide, darting from side to side, and he was trembling very fiercely all of a sudden. Sweat peppered his brow and hair.

“Jaskier…something’s watching us.”

“I know. But we’ll be alright. It won’t hurt us. Just relax, and it’ll go away.”

It seemed counterproductive to try to convince Geralt that whatever he was imagining wasn’t really there. The Witcher lived in a sensory world, constantly. He was always able to depend on the fact that whatever his eyes saw and his ears heard was real, and he relied on that fact to keep him alive. Trying to tell him now that everything he knew and trusted was incapacitated seemed and unnecessary cruelty. Best just to keep him calm and relaxed until the drug worked its way through his system.

“’S cold too…”

“Yes, it is, isn’t it? Come here, alright? I’ll bring a blanket and we can keep warm.”

The room was very warm from the fire, but this was another fight that Jaskier was unwilling to have. Geralt seemed to derive some sort of comfort from their closeness. And far be it from the bard to deny him that. Leaning back against the headboard, he gathered Geralt up in his arms, trying to ignore the melting warmth that exploded in his chest when that gorgeous silver head nuzzled up against him, seeking warmth and an anchor to the real world.

They stayed like that for a long while. Geralt continued to mutter about being watched, and occasionally his limbs spasmed and he moaned, every muscle in his body taut. As time went on, though, his words became more and more slurred, until eventually they simply ceased. His eyes were still open, and his breath came fast enough that Jaskier knew he was frightened. It seemed like his whole body was frozen, the ability to move stolen from him. The bard held his trembling frame close.

“I’ve got you, alright? Here, let me cover your face with something, alright? I know the light is probably giving you a dreadful headache, and you’re probably very thirsty as well. Just try to relax. We’ll fix it all soon, once you’re a bit more yourself.”

Geralt sighed, a whimpering thing. He still seemed incapable of movement, and until he was, Jaskier didn’t want to leave him to go get water. At a loss for what else to do, the bard began carding a hand through his sweaty hair. Slowly, at first, and then with more conviction when Geralt’s eyes slid shut and he sighed. His open mouth was warm on Jaskier’s exposed collarbone, and a little string of drool escaped his lips and pooled in the hollow of the bard’s neck. All thoughts of the farm boy from earlier on in the night fled his mind, and were replaced with newer, far more immediate ones. More than a little guilty for having such thoughts when Geralt was probably frightened and aching and uncomfortable, Jaskier shook himself. He could entertain such fantasies later, when the Witcher was well. And preferably far away. He couldn’t risk Geralt finding out that his feelings were deepening into something more.

At some point, the Witcher must have fallen from his catatonic state into a deep sleep. His breaths evened out, and Jaskier found himself releasing tension he hadn’t realized he had been holding. When Geralt woke, he would surely be miserable; in the bard’s experience coming down from too much fisstech was an experience that rivalled some of his worst hangovers. But at least Geralt was no longer confused and paranoid; paranoia in someone with such skill with blades was downright dangerous, and not an image that Jaskier wanted to entertain too much. He rubbed a hand through the Witcher’s hair, and extricated himself from under the man. It would be best to take these hours to prepare for what was to come. Jaskier didn’t want to leave Geralt alone when he did wake.

He prepared some water, and added a bit of lavender oil to it. Lavender would be a helpful remedy for headache, without being overwhelmingly strong. Then, he took a moment to have a bite to eat (from their own packs; he did not trust anything that came from the inn after what had happened), and sat down with his lute by the fire. It crackled and danced, and Jaskier crossed his legs, taking a moment just to enjoy its beauty. His heart was pounding, and idly he traced a figure eight on his leg, breathing in and out in time with the completion of each circle. It was a trick Geralt had taught him a while back, when he had finally admitted that he got nervous when performing for a crowd of his peers. They had been in Oxenfurt, at the annual bardic competition. Jaskier could still remember the sparks that had shot up his leg as Geralt had traced the pattern on his knee with a large finger, instructing him on when to breathe. It had been such a soft moment, and after when Jaskier had informed the Witcher that his anxiety had been significantly quelled, he had looked genuinely relieved. The bard wondered if anyone had ever accepted such simple help from him before. If anyone had just sat and listened, and taken his advice. Geralt was very old, and exceptionally intelligent. It had to be painful, the bard had thought, to be considered nothing more than a brutish piece of meat, designed for killing and nothing more. Geralt’s penchant for philosophizing and considering the world around him ran far too deep for such an existence to hold any value to him. And he had seemed so touched, when Jaskier had actually taken his advice. It was a painful realization to come to, that something so simple could mean so much to the man.

Strumming a few thoughtful chords, Jaskier leaned back against the footboard of the bed. He could hear Geralt’s breaths from here, would know instantly if anything about his condition changed. It was good enough, for him to simply sit here and compose quietly, until the Witcher awoke. He didn’t want to frighten Geralt when he first started to rouse. He had woken from a bad high plenty of times in his youth, and knew he would not want anyone, even a close friend, breathing down his neck during those first few minutes. That, combined with the fact that he had no idea how Geralt’s enhanced senses would react to the withdrawal from the drug, made him cautious. Best to leave off until he was sure Geralt was well enough to handle someone else even sharing the room with him.

It wasn’t until the early hours of the afternoon that the Witcher actually stirred. Jaskier immediately stopped his strumming. The fire had guttered several hours ago, and with the absence of Jaskier’s music, Geralt’s distressed breathing became all too apparent. The bard wondered how long he had been floating on the edge of consciousness, and his heart sank a bit. Setting the lute down with a gentle twanging of strings, he crept up to Geralt’s side, and slipped a hand gently into the Witcher’s own. Geralt’s pale skin was flushed bright, and there was sweat dripping from his forehead. One hand was clenched at his temple, as though he were trying to draw out whatever pain had taken up residence in his head. It was rather heartbreaking. 

“Welcome back,” Jaskier whispered, trusting that Geralt’s ears would pick up even on the softest sounds, “I expect you’re feeling very poorly. Should I go get you some water, and then we can talk?”

Geralt nodded, a tiny thing, and his brows drew together in a pained grimace at the motion. Jaskier brushed a sympathetic hand through his hair, and returned a moment later with the cup of lavender water. He helped the Witcher drink, and settled him back on the pillows. He looked absolutely miserable, and had yet to open his eyes. Both hands were clenched into fists in the sheets, knuckles white and fingers twitching with pain. Sweat drenched his whole body, making his dirty shirt stick to his chest.

“What happened?” Geralt’s voice was very quiet, but it was clear and free of the messy slurring that had characterized his speech last night. He was leaned back, boneless against the pillows and the headboard of the bed. It was a miserable sight.

“Someone drugged you in the tavern. It was fisstech. I suppose you’re probably so used to smelling it in inns and such, that it didn’t register in your mind that the smell was coming from your own food. It was far too much, Geralt. Enough to kill an ordinary man.”

Geralt grimaced, but it was more an expression of shame than one of pain. He rubbed tiredly at his still closed eyes with a shaky hand.

“That explains the hangover.”

“Yes. It is rather horrible, isn’t it? Not to mention that your body probably has no tolerance to the drug. Not that I know of, anyways.”

Geralt snorted.

“Fisstech and potions don’t mix well. I’ve never been inclined to tempt fate in such a way.”

Jaskier nodded, and rubbed at his own face. To his surprise, one of Geralt’s trembling hands sought out his knee, and squeezed it gently.

“I’m sorry. If I…caused you undue alarm.”

“Undue alarm? Geralt, one moment I was playing and you were brooding happily away in the corner, and the next I look up and you’re two sheets to the wind! But, it’s not your fault. There’s nothing you could have done to prevent it, and I know you were tired. So there’s no apology needed.”

“It was a stupid mistake.”

“I’ll give you that. But a mistake nonetheless. Now, try to rest. It works best if you sleep through the first few hours. Your headache will be gone by evening.”

Geralt nodded tiredly. He was clearly unable to open his eyes; the light was probably far too bright. And even their short conversation had left him looking pale and nauseous, hands shaking worse than before. There was no point in the man staying awake to suffer through the comedown if he had an out.

“Should I get you something to help you sleep?”

Jaskier knew the words were idiotic the moment they came out of his mouth, but to his surprise a small smile crept across Geralt’s face. It was a bit lopsided, and it occurred to the bard for the first time that fisstech often didn’t completely wear off until nearly a day after the original dose. Clearly, Geralt was still a bit far from himself.

“Think I’ll pass, bard.”

Jaskier gave a small huff of laughter as well, acknowledging his own stupidity. When he made to stand and leave, though, Geralt’s hand tightened on his knee. He stopped, and looked back.

“You’ll stay? I mean…you don’t have to. You’re probably busy; you lost out on good coin last night because you had to leave early.”

“Of course I’ll stay.”

Jaskier settled back down, and Geralt practically melted into him, in a way he never would have done had he been all there. Jaskier smiled and rested his head atop the Witcher’s, feeling his breath even out underneath him.


	23. Sleep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the events in Rinde, Geralt is still suffering from the effects of his insomnia. Yennefer helps a bit, and turns the “you left me first” story on its head in the process.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahhh so this is my first time writing Yen and I’m very nervous. That’s it. That’s the note. Lemme know what you guys think!!

When Yennefer rolled over, blinking her eyes slowly back to wakefulness, she expected him to be gone. Witchers, from what she had heard, were flighty. They never remained in the same place for long, and they certainly did not allow themselves to get attached to anyone. But as she stretched her arms luxuriously over her head, bathing in the sweet, sensual ache that simmered under skin, she caught a glimpse of his silver hair. Propping herself on her elbows, she rolled to face him entirely, a small smile playing across her features as she observed him.

He was still splayed out in the same position he had fallen asleep in, many hours ago judging by the state of the sky through the broken windows. It was unnerving, Yennefer thought, the way he slept. So still he was more like a corpse than a living, breathing being. But she knew better. She could still feel how very alive he was, could still sense his warmth inside her. It had been a long time since such a sensation had been novel to her; after a while all the men and women blurred together into a muddy brushstroke of pleasure. But Geralt stood out. There had been something…intoxicating about him. It was not a word Yennefer used often. It was dangerous, to allow herself to become intoxicated by anyone. And she could sense destiny’s call rolling off Geralt in droves. He was nothing if not a magnet for danger and trouble, but Yennefer simply couldn’t bring herself to care. As she watched him sleep, ever so still, the rare smile still flickering across her lips, she had never wanted anything so badly.

His face changed all of a sudden, though. Where there had been corpselike peace there was now a frown, eyes rolling fearfully under closed lids. Not sure how he would feel about having her intervene, Yennefer watched curiously as what appeared to be a nightmare continued to grow. He was twitching now, hands clenched at his sides and ankles rolling in the supple leather of his boots. A bit of blood rolled down his face, and Yennefer realized he was biting into his lip so hard that it was bleeding.

Shaking her head at the sheer absurdity of it all, she shook him violently, grasping him by the shoulders. Not even a month ago, she would not have hesitated to turn her back on such a situation, choosing to make herself scarce before he awoke and realized what they had done. But something was compelling Yennefer to stay this time. She couldn’t say what it was. Sheer stupidity, perhaps. Sentimentality, the ache blooming in her womb as she realized that she had yet again failed in her one great desire, the one thing she could not have.

Geralt twisted in her hands, and pushed her off him so violently that she had to cast a quickly shielding spell with her hand to keep from smacking into an overturned vase. Furious, she rounded on him. And then she saw his eyes.

He had said he was seeking the djinn to cure insomnia. And while, perhaps, that had been one of the reasons he had pulled the amphora from the lake, it had been clear it was not the main one. So Yennefer had forgotten the sleeplessness entirely, brushing it off as a lie to excuse his real motivation. But now, seeing the way his eyes were rimmed with red and the dark smudges that had suddenly appeared underneath him, she wondered if he had truly been lying. 

He leaned over, placing his elbows on his knees and cradling his head in his hands. Yennefer wondered if he had even realized she was there, or if her waking him had somehow melded with his nightmare. She stood and brushed herself off, a bit unsure of how to proceed. It was a strange feeling. It had been years since she had felt this conflicted and out of her depth.

“Do you normally shove the women you sleep with into broken crockery? Or am I just that good?”

Geralt started and looked up at her, bedraggled and with more than a little guilt in his eyes. Immediately, she regretted saying it. Whatever his normal capacity for witty repartee was, it was clearly depleted. Probably had been since their conversation last night.

“Fuck…sorry. Didn’t mean…are you alright?”

He struggled to his feet and examined her up and down, eyes trailing for a moment over her breasts, not nearly covered by the sheer fabric of her white shift. She smiled a little at that, but chose not to comment on it. He looked terrible. 

“It would take a lot more than that to cause me harm. You, on the other hand, look absolutely terrible. Perhaps there’s something I can do to…assuage your difficulty?”

There was a helplessly provocative note to her voice, but Yennefer found she couldn’t help it. Even bedraggled and half asleep, she could feel that warmth inside her, burning a little brighter every time she looked at him. She rather hated it. Attachment was not something she could afford.

“Hmm. In payment, are you going to ask me to humiliate another town council for you? Perhaps get myself arrested and beaten again, just for old time’s sake?”

A hint of a smile played on his lips now as well, and she edged closer.

“I think, perhaps, we can find a more conventional method of payment. After I’ve made you a sleeping draught, of course.”

Yennefer extended her hand, and to her surprise, Geralt took it. His hand was enormous; it dwarfed her small fingers and it was very warm. One of his fingers ghosted over her scars, and she shivered a bit as she led him through the wreckage, hoping to find enough of her herbs to be able to concoct something that would help him get some rest.

As it turned out, the cellar which she had been using a temporary storage location for her various magical devices and herbs had been left relatively intact in the collapse of the house. Relieved, she instructed Geralt to wait in the hall. He sank gratefully to the floor, leaning his head back on the cool flagstones of the wall. He shivered, and Yennefer snatched up a scarf she had left hanging on the inside of the door of the cellar. It got drafty often when she was working, and now she was glad to have left it here. She dropped it in Geralt’s lap, her eyes daring him to say a word. She needn’t have bothered, he didn’t meet her eyes. He did wrap the scarf around his slumped shoulders, though. And he seemed much more comfortable, with the crocheted wool keeping in his warmth. 

Yennefer shut the door on him, and found some valerian root and a small amount of laudanum to mix together into a serum. She added in some lavender, to hide the flavour. She knew he would not be entirely agreeable to taking such a heavy drug, and hoped that perhaps in his exhausted state he wouldn’t notice. He looked terrible, and Yennefer knew enough about healing to know that he needed all the help sleeping that he could get.

Slipping back out through the door and into the hall, well-lit from the massive hole blown in the ceiling, Yennefer approached Geralt. He was still leaned back on the wall, shaking a bit under the scarf. He tried to still his shivers the moment he heard her approach. Probably due to pride, she thought. 

“There may be a bedroom down the hall that’s still intact. Come on.”

She offered him a hand, which he took gratefully, hauling himself to his feet with a heavy breath. He walked very slowly, an arm wrapped around his chest. Yennefer noticed, and stopped so suddenly Geralt nearly smacked into her, blinking.

“You’re injured.” She nodded at his arm, still clutched tightly to his torso.

“It’s nothing. Mostly healed already.”

Yennefer cocked her head and fixed her eyes on him until, after a concerningly short period of time, he sighed and placed his arm carefully back at his side.

“That bastard guard in the dungeon I woke up in. He may have cracked a few ribs. I’ll heal.”

Strangely enough, Yennefer felt a surge of guilt at his words. She shook herself. He had fulfilled a purpose, given his payment, even though he hadn’t been exactly aware that was what he was doing at the time. Injury had been a calculated risk of what she had done. Now was not a time to get sentimental.

“From what I’ve heard of Witchers, I’m sure you will. I can take a look while you’re sleeping, if you’d like. To make sure you’re not bleeding internally.”

Geralt shrugged, seeming too tired to care. Yennefer opened the door to a small bedroom, a servant’s quarters. The Witcher looked as though he had never seen a better bed, though, and promptly slumped over on it, not even bothering to take off his boots. The sorceress again pinned him with her gaze until he did, removing his jacket as well and tossing it unceremoniously on the floor.

“The damn thing’s too fucking tight. I don’t know how I’m expected to breathe well enough to sleep wearing it.”

“You did a perfectly fine job earlier. Here, drink this. It’ll help.”

“What about my payment? You don’t strike me as someone who likes to be kept waiting for what she’s owed.”

A small sneer curled into Geralt’s tired expression as he said it, and whatever intentions Yennefer might have had, they flew out the open window as she watched him. Smiling and tucking her hair behind her ear, she sat on the edge of the mattress next to him.

“Luckily, I’ve once again deemed your company and conversation to be more than enough. I’ll sit with you until you wake. The sedatives are quite strong, and I wouldn’t want you to be caught unawares should someone come here with bad intentions.”

That was not the real reason Yennefer chose to stay. She knew Geralt was more than aware of this, but as he downed the potion in a single gulp, she knew he did not care. She supposed she couldn’t blame him, either. It had clearly been nigh on a week since he had last had some decent rest.

The moment he swallowed the potion, Geralt tipped off balance, and Yennefer barely had time to reach out and keep him from smacking his head on the nightstand. Gently, she laid him down on the bed, working the covers out from underneath him and pulling them up. He was still shivering, probably a side effect of the exhaustion. Battling a fever was a complication Yennefer knew the Witcher could not afford at the moment.

After a few bleary, exhausted blinks, Geralt went slack against the pillow, exhaling so deeply it startled the mage a bit. He looked so much more relaxed in his sleep. Especially when it was a restful one. Despite herself, Yennefer brushed a hand across his forehead, gently. The warmth in her stomach had still not left her, and she had the feeling it would not for a while yet. The thought of it staying with her, a reminder of him, both terrified and exhilarated her. In the candlelight, another small smile played across her well-formed lips.

But when Geralt awoke, blinking and dizzy and very exhausted still, she was gone. Every trace of her wiped from the room like she had never existed at all. He wondered if she had been nothing more than a fantasy, created by his sleep deprived mind. It would certainly make sense, after the days of sleeplessness and the constant preoccupation with his child surprise that seemed to dominate his mind. But the scent of lilac and gooseberry lingered in the air like a fading memory, and the feeling of destiny coiled deep in his gut.


	24. Sight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt isn’t in full possession of his senses.

No matter how many times it happened, Jaskier would never get used to Geralt announcing his return from a successful hunt by simply tossing the severed…bits of whatever he had been hired to kill into the centre of their campsite. Geralt could deny it all he wanted, but the bard knew he had a penchant for the dramatic. One too many basilisk heads landing square within his field of range had taught him that. If he hadn’t known better, Jaskier would have thought Geralt was trying to impress him. Not that he wasn’t already. 

“Gods…fuck. Geralt! That smells…sweet Melitele, did you crawl into a cemetery? That thing, whatever it is, smells like something left out to putrefy in the sun.”

Jaskier gagged, and it was most definitely not for show. His stomach was turning somersaults inside his chest. The head was horrible, huge, malformed. It looked like something that had, at one time, been human. But someone had taken it and stretched it, contorting the nose and mouth into a brutal caricature of a man’s face. The whole thing was oozing some sort of foul black liquid, and one reddened, slitted eye gaped up at the bard, vacant and yet horrifyingly observant. Jaskier didn’t want to turn his back on the thing, for fear that it would leap up and take a bit out of him with those huge, pointed teeth.

“Really, Geralt,” he continued on, trying to keep an eye on the head without making eye contact with it, “We’ve discussed this. Your evidence, or whatever it is, can live outside our camp. Or make its way directly back to your employers. It really seems unnecessary, to have it here. Staring at us. All night. I won’t sleep a wink.”

There was still no answer, but Jaskier mostly assumed that no answers from the Witcher meant he was simply not in the mood to converse. It happened with decent regularity, especially when he was returning from a hunt. The bard tried not to let it bother him. He knew Geralt didn’t intend to snub him.

After several moments of not even a rustle, though, Jaskier began to get concerned. Normally Geralt was not far behind whatever gruesome trophy he happened to be carrying. It was strange for him to hang back. Even when he was wounded, he would usually go and sit by the fire, cursing loudly as he tried to undress and stitch his wounds by himself. When he wasn’t too badly off, Jaskier would often let him struggle for a few minutes before jumping in. It served Geralt right, he was ever unwilling to ask for help. Not pridefully, though. It seemed he was simply afraid of causing any nuisance to the bard. Nothing could convince him that he was not a burden.

“Geralt? Are you quite alright?”

Silence. Jaskier’s heart rate picked up a little bit. The only explanation that came to his mind was that Geralt had fallen unconscious and was thus unable to answer him. And it took a very serious wound to cause him to pass out before he had even made it back to the safety of their camp.

Without directing another thought at the putrid head poisoning the air in their campsite, Jaskier yanked on his boots and crashed into the underbrush. Geralt must have almost made it back. After all, that head hadn’t simply jettisoned itself. Unfortunately, the bard was not graced with the Witcher’s night vision, and he nearly ended up stumbling over Geralt’s boot, camouflaged in the darkness on the forest floor. Hopping back at the last second, Jaskier found Geralt lying near the base of a fallen tree. He was turned away from the campsite, with struck the bard as being very odd. Geralt never got himself turned around.

Patting his cheek gently (it seemed cruel to resort to slapping straight out of the gate), Jaskier waited for a response. To his surprise, Geralt wasn’t passed out. He moved the moment Jaskier laid a hand on his face, lurching to an upright position somewhat dizzily, overbalancing and falling into the bard’s shoulder.

“Easy,” Jaskier grabbed him and wrapped his arms around the Witcher’s back, “What happened to you? You’re a right mess.”

Geralt groaned, and heaved himself to his feet, stumbling rather drunkenly as he got his balance back. Jaskier offered an arm for support, and it took Geralt far too long to find it, his hands grasping at empty space for a moment before Jaskier waved his hand and the Witcher found his arm. They turned and made their way back to the campsite, and Jaskier immediately noticed that there was no limp in Geralt’s step, no awkwardness in the way he held himself or half-concealed attempts to hide his hitching breaths. No injuries, then. But curiously, the Witcher stayed firmly behind him, following him and clinging to his elbow. He was also breathing in very deeply through his nose, as though he were trying to suck all the scent out of the air. And with the miasma of the head widening its borders, Jaskier hadn’t the faintest idea why Geralt would want to smell anything. He stopped, and turned.

“Geralt, what’s going on? I find you lying on your back in the middle of the dark forest, though you weren’t unconscious and should have been perfectly able to get up and get yourself back to camp. You’re trailing behind me and clinging to my arm like it’s a lifeline. But there’s nothing wrong with you. You’re not injured. So you need to tell me what’s happened so I can help you.”

When they stopped, Geralt kept walking, smacking right into Jaskier’s chest. He grunted an apology, and took a stumbling step backwards. He raised his free hand to rub at his eyes. And that was when Jaskier noticed. 

Geralt’s eyes were unfocused, but not in a way the bard had ever seen before. It was not a concussed sort of look, where his eyes would get glazed over and track movement a bit too slow. And his pupils were not dilated in the way they did when he took Cat, so it wasn’t that, either. His eyes simply weren’t moving. They stared off into the middle distance, a bit above Jaskier’s left shoulder. And no matter what the bard did or how he moved, they stayed focused there. 

“Gods, Geralt,” the bard’s voice sunk a few octaves; he felt afraid of what he was about to say, “Can you see…anything?”

Geralt’s shoulders slumped, and his head bowed down. He shook his head miserably, and in an instant, Jaskier was at his side, slinging the Witcher’s arm over his own shoulder and guiding him to sit down near the fire.

“Why didn’t you tell me? Were you planning on just pretending you could see, and hoping I wouldn’t notice? What, did you think I’d just brush off you lying on your back in the middle of the woods as a bit of stargazing? Gods, but you can be thick.”

“I can smell well enough. But when I threw the head, it disoriented me. And the smell of it overwhelmed your smell, and the smell of the fire. I must have tripped, and I couldn’t find my feet again.”

Geralt’s voice was very quiet, and Jaskier’s heart sunk in his chest. Now was clearly not the time to be having this conversation.

“Come sit down and rest by the fire, alright? I’ll move that head, and then I need to know how this happened and what we can do to fix it.”

Puffing up his cheeks and sucking in an enormous breath, Jaskier gripped the head by its least slimy extremity (an ear) and half dragged it to the very outskirts of the camp, covering it with some dried leaves and twigs. After excusing himself for a moment to cough up most of his dinner in the bushes, he returned to Geralt’s side. The Witcher looked distressed.

“You alright?” His voice had gained back some of its surety now.

“Am I alright? Geralt, you can’t see! Your eyes don’t work! And you’re asking me if I’m alright because I had to touch a bit of rotting flesh? Trust me, my dear, I’ve touched far worse.”

Geralt made a face and leaned back, sighing. His eyes were fixed on a point high above the fire. It was a very disturbing image, and yet the Witcher seemed relatively unconcerned about the whole thing.

“What happened?” Jaskier settled in beside his companion, resting a hand on the other man’s knee to let him know he was close, “Is…can we fix it? Are you going to be alright?”

“Fine. I just need a few days. I must have had a bad herb in the last batch of Tawny Owl that I made. Whatever it was, it made the blood vessels in my eyes tighten up. Once it all works its way through my system, I should be fine.”

“Should be?”

“Well, it’s never happened to me before.”

“Is there anything I can do to help? Are you dizzy, or should I get you some White Honey? You know, to make the potion wear off faster?”

“White Honey won’t help. The potion’s already worn off. This herb stays in the system longer, although it usually doesn’t cause any trouble. I’m a bit dizzy. And…nauseous.”

Jaskier nodded. He could work with dizzy and nauseous. While they were not symptoms that Geralt himself experienced very often, the bard had suffered from at least six separate flus and colds over his years travelling with the Witcher. If nothing else, he knew how to recover properly from such things while on the road.

“Come lie down. I’ll make you some tea and something light to eat. It should help settle your stomach a bit.”

Geralt’s fingers clenched suddenly in the fabric of his pants, and Jaskier’s heart stopped momentarily. He wondered what he had said wrong.

“I’d rather stay here. It’s all…disorienting. And everything is too loud. If I sit by the fire, the burning wood drowns out some of the forest noises. My other senses are working to compensate for my vision loss; I can’t handle much extra noise at the moment.”

“Alright. Give me a moment, and I’ll bring your things here, so you can sleep by the fire. And I can stay with you, if you’d like. To keep an eye out for danger. So you don’t have to feel the need to be constantly on alert.”

“You know I will be anyways.”

“Yes. But perhaps it’ll help all the same.”

Geralt shrugged and released a shaky sigh. He kept one hand on the ground at all times, and every once in a while he would start listing sideways and have to catch himself dizzily, shaking his head to clear his sightless eyes. He kept rubbing at them as well, as though they were sore. When Jaskier returned a few moments later with Geralt’s blanket and pack, he wasted no time in wrapping the blanket around the Witcher’s shoulders, and placing a gentle hand on his shoulder to reassure him that there was someone still there. 

“You’re alright?”

“Mmm. Feel ill.”

“Your body is probably very confused and disoriented. Tell me if you need me to help you to the bushes.”

Looking very pale, Geralt nodded. His throat was working a bit more energetically now, and he kept his mouth firmly clamped shut. Giving him a sympathetic glance, the bard turned to the fire, brewing some chamomile and valerian tea and heating a slice of bread. He was about to turn back to the Witcher when he lurched up violently, clearly intending to make his way to the bushes but tripping over a log before he got more than two steps. Jaskier leapt up and grabbed him by the arm before he fell into the dirt.

They stumbled the rest of the way to the bushes, where Geralt choked miserably and vomited up whatever little bit he had eaten before setting out on the hunt. Jaskier held back his hair, rubbing his back uncomfortably. If anything the Witcher looked even worse off when he was done vomiting; the muscle spasms must have made him dizzier, because he leaned on Jaskier’s shoulder, weight shifting about as though he wasn’t even sure which was was up. They sat there for a long moment, the bard trying to ignore how tightly Geralt was clinging to his shoulder, before he helped the man up and half carried him back to the fire. 

“Ah, bugger, there goes the tea. Over steeped it again. I’ll have to boil more water.”

Geralt had slumped so far over he was almost lying down, and he looked very groggy. His eyes were shut now, for all the good it would do him.

“Sorry…”

“What?”

“Sorry…’s my fault. I can go get the water.”

Jaskier rolled his eyes and squatted down next to Geralt, laying a hand on his shoulder.

“It is not your fault. And you’d likely kill yourself before you made it to the stream, excellent sense of smell or no. Just lie down, and try to rest, and I’ll be back in a moment.”

Geralt slumped, and Jaskier eased his head the rest of the way onto the ground. He wondered if the reason the Witcher had not laid down fully to start with was because he couldn’t sense how far away the ground was from his head, and was afraid of smacking right into it. Even the thought made Jaskier nauseous. He was surprised Geralt had held out for as long as he had before vomiting everywhere. 

On his way to get the water, Jaskier tried to listen, tried to navigate purely by using his hearing and smell, just to give himself a rough approximation of the odds Geralt had been up against. He nearly smacked into trees on three different occasions, and had bruised his hand very badly by the time he reached the icy stream. Stopping for a moment to bath the aching appendage in the water, Jaskier breathed in the evening air. It was crisp and cool, a perfect autumn night. The sort of night when he wanted nothing more than to stare up at the stars. He and Geralt had done that once, the Witcher pointing out constellations and explaining the lore behind them. Of course Jaskier knew all this already, but he enjoyed getting Geralt in a talkative mood. The man was a fountain of knowledge, and he his witty brevity when telling a story never failed to make the bard smile. As he filled the bucket by the stream, Jaskier was struck by a sudden idea. Jolting to his feet, he practically tripped over his own legs hurrying back to the camp. He dumped the water in the pot and lay down next to Geralt, who had not moved and was looking even paler, and very sweaty.

“I’m here,” Jaskier reached out and grasped his hand, “And while I was down by the river, I noticed what a beautiful night it is tonight. It’s all clear, no clouds. You can see the stars so perfectly.”

Geralt snorted miserably.

“One of us can, anyways.” His voice was thick with nausea, and Jaskier winced a bit. Probably not the best way to start out.

“Well, yes. But you know where all the stars are. Even with your eyes closed. I’ve seen you point out constellations while you’ve been half asleep.”

“I’m not…really feeling up to it. At the moment.” There was a hesitance in Geralt’s tone now, as though he was afraid to say no, to disappoint Jaskier. The bard squeezed his hand softly.

“That’s alright. It’s not what I was asking for, anyways. Can you picture them, if I tell you the stories? Just to take your mind off the sounds, and the nausea. I figured it might help…”

The bard trailed off, suddenly feeling a bit embarrassed, but Geralt nodded minutely. 

“I’ve nothing better to do.”

“Ah, a glowing endorsement! Where shall I begin…”

Jaskier began with the North Star, and worked his way outwards, tracing out hunters and warriors and beautiful queens with his finger, dark against the brightness of the sky. Occasionally, Geralt would hum to let him know that he was still listening. The water had boiled long ago, but Jaskier was fully invested now. Besides, it seemed his strategy had worked. Geralt was relaxed next to him, his breaths deep enough that the bard could tell he was falling asleep. And so he continued on, weaving imaginary tales when he could not remember the real ones. These made Geralt smile a bit, although it was more a sleepy half attempt at the expression. Eventually, they both drifted off, well before the sun crested the horizon.

\----

The next morning found Geralt in similarly poor shape as the previous evening. He woke dizzy and desperately nauseous, and when he opened his eyes and they did not lighten the dark, he gasped, shocked and confused and temporarily unable to remember what had happened. Jaskier shot up next to him, and wrapped a bracing arm around the Witcher just in time for him to throw up mostly stomach acid, retching and choking miserably with barely the time to get on his hands and knees.

“Morning,” he greeted weakly when he was done, wiping a string of drool from his chin, “Go back to sleep. I’m sorry I woke you.”

Jaskier squinted up at the sun, which was nearly midway through its journey in the sky. Wincing a bit, he scrambled to his feet.

“Geralt, it’s almost noon. And I never did get to making you that tea last night. Maybe it would help now…it seems that you’re no better.”

“I likely won’t be until my vision comes back. My body isn’t designed to be deprived of its senses.”

There was a certain coldness, a detachment about the way Geralt spoke about his body. As though it was something that was crafted for him, like a suit of armour, not something that was integrally part of who he was. Jaskier supposed that, with all he had been through in the Trials, this was not that far from the truth. The bard wondered what it was like, to experience such clinical separation from one’s own flesh and blood. It made him feel odd and out of sorts to even consider such a way of looking at his body, which to him was as much his instrument as his lute. Without it, he would be lost.

During his musings, Jaskier discovered that he had left the water to boil over, and only came back to himself when Geralt gave him a hard jab in the side. The water hissing onto the fire must have been torture on his sensitive ears, and Jaskier hurried to pull the pot from the fire, splashing some boiling water on his hand in the process.

“Fucking hell.” He cursed viciously, rubbing his hand miserably, the skin already reddened and beginning to blister. Geralt seemed not to have noticed his agony, and was staring up at the sky with that same disturbingly empty look. The moment Jaskier saw those empty amber eyes, normally rippling with intelligence and a vaguely predatory glint, he put his own woes aside and tossed some dried chamomile flowers into a mug, pouring the steaming water over top.

“Tea’s ready.”

When Geralt didn’t hold out a hand immediately to accept it, Jaskier was surprised, and shoved the warm mug into his palm. The Witcher drew back, surprised and clearly not having expected it, and Jaskier flushed with embarrassment.

“Gods, sorry. I didn’t burn you, did I?”

“No.”

Geralt grimaced, still looking very pale, and leaning against the log as though it was the only thing keeping him upright. He kept switching the mug between hands, looking very uncomfortable. 

“Are you…going to drink that?”

“I’ll probably spill and burn myself. I’m…off-kilter.”

Flushing again and feeling supremely idiotic, Jaskier took the mug back from Geralt’s shaky hands. The Witcher sighed, clearly relieved he didn’t need to put exactly what he needed into words. When Jaskier gently tapped the side of his face to let him know he was going to give him some tea, Geralt did wrap shaky hands over top of the bard’s on the mug. He barely took two sips before he pushed it back, looking pale and his cheeks taking on a rather green tinge.

“Too strong?”

“Everything is, right now.”

Jaskier set the mug down on the ground and decided it would probably be for the best if they left eating any solid foods for the time being. He wrapped an arm around Geralt’s shoulders, and the Witcher leaned into the contact happily, sighing with exhaustion.

“Any sign your sight’s getting better yet?”

“A bit. I can see brightness sometimes, interspersed with the dark. It started this morning.”

“I’ll take that to mean you have a headache as well?”

Geralt nodded and felt around on the ground for a second, his eyebrows drawing together in concern.

“Did you take my swords?”

“They’re right here,” Jaskier placed his hand on top of Geralt’s and guided it to the hilt of his steel sword, which was leaned up against the same log they were sitting against, “You know I wouldn’t put them out of your reach. Sometimes I think you still believe I don’t know you at all.”

A ghostly smiled flickered across Geralt’s pale face, and he pulled the swords closer, bringing his hand back to rest in his lap. He closed his eyes after a moment, squeezing his brows together, and Jaskier took his hand.

“Brightness getting worse? I suppose that would be your luck; have your sight return all at once after being deprived of it for a whole day. Those potions are cruel, you know that?”

Geralt just squeezed his eyes tighter and massaged his temples, bringing up a leg to steady himself. Jaskier rolled his eyes and placed his hands on the Witcher’s shoulders, pushing him down rather abruptly into his lap. Clearly dizzy and disoriented by the sudden and unplanned descent, Geralt didn’t fight him as he ran his hands through the silky silver hair, stopping occasionally to massage or press gently on a pressure point.

“Let me do it. Close your eyes until you feel ready to open them again. And I’ve a bucket nearby, should things take a turn for the worse. I know you get dreadful headaches from bright lights.”

Geralt nodded gratefully, and sighed in relief when Jaskier pressed gently on his temples, bringing his fingers across the creased forehead and dark eyebrows, and then fanning them back out again. His eyes slid shut, and after a while the paleness drained a bit from his face, meagre colour returning to his cold cheeks.

\----

Geralt got his sight back completely later that evening, when the skies had mercifully darkened. Jaskier didn’t make a fire that night, or for nearly a week after. Geralt was in a constant state of overstimulated agony, his head and eyes constantly buried in his hands or hidden by his hood, which he pulled down near to his lips to block out the light. Operating in the dark was a challenge the first night, but Jaskier grew used to the layout of their camp, grew used to offering Geralt his arm, as even in the night it was too overwhelming for him to open his eyes. There was something deeply intimate about the way Geralt trusted him to lead him to the stream, to fetch him water and food that he couldn’t even visually appraise to make sure it was satisfactory. Frightened as he was to admit it, the bard liked the warmth of Geralt’s large hand wrapping around his arm. The Witcher had long fingers, and Jaskier was slender, so his hand fully encompassed the bard’s arm. It was very comforting. There was a part of Jaskier that wished the Witcher would hold him like that on cool fall nights. For warmth. He did get so very cold in the last few weeks before they parted ways, one seeking the frigidity of the mountains and the other the warmth and light of the streets of Oxenfurt. 

They worked slowly towards Geralt regaining his sight properly. Jaskier could see he was infuriated by his own slow progress; every time he caught a whiff of the rotting head on the outskirts of their camp he understood why. They were low on supplies, and Geralt had needed that coin to repair Roach’s saddle and to buy rations to sustain his trip back to Kaer Morhen, when the time came. But he could not open his eyes, except for in the darkest reaches of the night, and when there was no fire. He also struggled to regain the reflex that he used to control the contraction and dilation of his pupils, and he was constantly absorbing too much light, bringing up a hand to shield his face and groaning under his breath. Jaskier had been fascinated to learn that Geralt controlled his pupils through conscious thought rather than his body doing it for him. It explained a lot; the night vision and uncanny ability to quickly adapt to see in darkened places only moments after standing in the full sun.

Finally, after nearly a week and a half of staying in the campsite, leading Geralt everywhere, trying to help him as best as he could, Jaskier could see the Witcher had had enough. He was able to keep his eyes open for short periods in the daylight now, and his other senses seemed to have settled somewhat; he no longer woke in the morning with unbearably nausea. That day, Geralt got to his feet and cursed rather violently, tossing back his hood and opening his eyes to slits, before forcing them open all the way and wincing back into the shade a bit.

“Geralt, for fuck’s sake, stop that. I can tell you’re in pain. We’re in no rush, you don’t need to feel like you need to push yourself.”

Geralt pushed the bard’s concerned hand off his arm and stalked away, before he stopped for a moment, presumably to let his temper settle a bit. His mood had suffered greatly from being able to do nothing but lie down or sit, unable even to read to pass the time.

“I need to return this head and collect payment. We need to get supplies, you need to play, we need to move on. It’s unwise to stay here any longer than we have to.”

“Why? We’ve been perfectly safe so far.”

“Most folk aren’t amenable to having a Witcher living off their land for nigh on half a month. Besides, if I don’t return soon, they’ll think I left with their advance payment and didn’t kill the damn rotfiend. We have a bad enough reputation as it is.”

Jaskier sighed. It was too easy to forget how inhospitable most people were to Witchers. He supposed he couldn’t entirely blame them for it; he too had grown up on the stories of Witchers stealing children and killing them in their far off towers, before descending like ghouls on the land to whore and drink and steal. But as he watched Geralt wince with every blink, and saw the colour drain from his face as he mounted Roach and made his way off through the aspen trees, stinking rotfiend head in tow, Jaskier couldn’t help but want to throttle every single one of them for their misguided prejudice.

Shaking himself, he tried not to worry for Geralt too much as he went about packing up their camp and setting thing in motion for them to depart. He would make sure the Witcher rested his eyes on the road.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All your lovely comments and kudos feed the author! Thanks so much for reading, as always. 
> 
> P.S. I’m aware there’s some typos in this chapter, for whatever reason my editing software wasn’t letting me fix them. I’ll come back and sort them out tomorrow!


	25. Reunion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The days after Geralt and Ciri meet in the woods outside Yurga's home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another one of my favourites! I absolutely love writing Geralt and Ciri, so this was kind of a dream come true for me. It melds show (mostly the setting and events) with books (lore, Law of Surprise stuff etc).
> 
> Thank you all so much for your sweet comments and kudos, as always!

Ciri broke away from him after a moment that seemed to both far too long and too slow at the same time. It surprised Geralt when she backed away, and he nearly tipped forwards into her, grunting and taking a moment to get his centre of balance back. It surprised the girl; she stood back and watched him with undisguised terror on her face. Huge green eyes stared up at him, open and liquid and holding far too much sorrow in them.

“You…you’re not dying, are you? My grandmother, she stumbled like that. And now…well, now there’s no chance that she’s alive. She might have been, if she hadn’t been hurt.”

“No, child. I’m not dying. Just sore. It’s been a long time I’ve been looking for you.”

Ciri nodded, though her nervous facial expression betrayed that she was still not quite convinced of Geralt’s wholeness. She took his hand in her own, small, delicate fingers curling around his large ones and tugging at him gently. He followed her through the woods, without any conscious understanding of where she was leading him, only that she seemed determined and convinced of their course. And after so many months of following her, dogging her footsteps and seeking her out, what was a few more minutes? Geralt was too tired to care.

After a few steps, though, they stopped again, and this time Geralt did smack into Ciri’s back, sending her jerking forwards, tumbling face first towards the ground. He reached out and caught her quickly, hugging her to his chest. She turned around, looking both enraged and fearful.

“You’re limping.” The accusatory tone brooked no argument, and Geralt saw no sense in trying to convince her that he was fine. To begin with a lie, that was no way to be a good father. Visenna had lied to him. And now the mere thought of her with her treacherous hands in his wounds made him sick. 

“There were ghouls, in a refugee camp over the border. I was slow. One bit me. I believe it’s the master of the farm you’ve been staying at who saved my life.”

Ciri made a disgusted face.

“Ghouls?”

Geralt didn’t have the energy to explain what a ghoul was at the moment, so he settled for ripping off the bandage on his thigh and exposing the wound for Ciri’s inspection. She leaned in, a horrified sort of fascination taking shape on her face. Geralt bore it until she looked up at him, fascination morphing into concern as she put together his pale, sweaty complexion and the still blackened wound marring his body.

“Come on,” she took his hand again, “We should go back. They’re good people, who took me in at the farm. I’m sure they’ll give you the help you need.”

He wanted to argue that he was fine, that in a few days he would be back to himself and it would be like the bite had never happened, but the smarter part of his mind had to agree with the girl. He had spent the last however many days jolting around in the back of a cart with a wound so badly gangrenous that it had nearly killed him. Would have, if he hadn’t encountered Visenna, or whatever strange fever dream she had been. He needed the rest, badly. By the looks of it, the girl did too. Geralt didn’t have the heart to force her onto the road again so soon, knowing she had spent the last few months doing nothing but running.

Ciri dragged him forwards a few more steps before she stopped again. Geralt looked up, exasperated. The frequent starts and stops were doing nothing for his leg; the muscles of his thigh were beginning to shake with weakness. His ears rang, and a blueish miasma encircled the edges of his vision. Dizzily, he leaned his hand against a rough tree trunk and watched as Ciri scrounged up a sturdy stick from the underbrush, thrusting it into his hands. He stared at it for a moment, and Ciri sighed and offered up an arm.

“Your eyes are going funny. Let me help you back.”

This wasn’t how this was supposed to start. Geralt felt a muted sense of panic as he took her arm, allowed her to lead him through the woods, leaning far more heavily on the stick than he would have cared to admit. He was supposed to help her. Pick her up and carry her off to Kaer Morhen and train her so she never had to worry about anyone hurting her again. And here he was, an absolute wreck, soaking, bedraggled and still warm with fever, definitely more than a little ill. And she was helping him, leading him back through the woods when they should have already mounted Roach, and been galloping away from this place as fast as they possibly could. Geralt had seen the smoke at Sodden. They did not have long, if Nilfgaard had won. He needed to get Ciri away from here.

As she continued to tug him forwards, though, Geralt found that he was too dizzy to worry about it overmuch. At the moment, he doubted he could have kept his seat on Roach, let alone held the girl on in front of him. The blue haze was edging in on his vision, and his leg was beginning to throb again. Perhaps he had torn some stitches. He would have to sew it up again, away from Ciri. She had seen enough blood already, he was sure.

When they stumbled back into the farmyard, rain was drizzling down even harder than it had been when Geralt had arrived. Yurga was standing near the front door, conversing with one of his sons, who was tall and dark haired, like his mother. When the merchant turned and saw Ciri and Geralt, he didn’t look at all surprised. More disappointed and a bit worried. He hurried over, and slid Geralt’s arm over his shoulder, grunting as he took on some of his weight. Geralt shook him off, but he seemed determined, and offered an arm instead, which the Witcher took with no further comment. It wasn’t worth it to argue. His ears were buzzing now, so loudly that he could barely hear the patter of the rain on the leaves, or the soft whinnying of Roach and Yurga’s team of horses.

“Witcher, you’re barely on your feet. Come in, my Zola can tend to your wounds better than I can. You’ll recover quicker, now you’re off the road.”

Yurga beckoned to his son, who jogged over and took Geralt’s weight with considerably less effort than his father. Geralt could feel strong muscles rippling under his jacket. Dazedly, he thought that the boy would have made a good Witcher. Would have been likely to survive the Trials. There was a time when he would have wanted to claim the Law of Surprise on this boy, take him back to Kaer Morhen as he himself had been. No longer, though. And they were all better for it.

Together, they managed to shoulder their way awkwardly through the wooden door to the house, which opened on a surprisingly comfortable sitting room, complete with a rocking chair by the fire and a well-kept rug on the floor. Geralt was too dizzy by that point to notice much, but the rug did catch his eye. It was from Oxenfurt, woven by someone well experienced in the craft. Jaskier would have loved it, and Geralt dazedly wondered where the merchant and his family had come by such a fine thing.

Yurga’s wife was beautiful as well, when she hurried into the room. All curly golden hair and blushing cheeks and bright, intelligent eyes. Geralt could see why he wanted to go back to her, wanted to get her out before Nilfgaard’s forces descended on them. There weren’t many men who loved their wives such, but one look at these two told Geralt they cared deeply for each other. He hoped, for their sake, that Nilfgaard had been defeated at Sodden. No one deserved to lose their home and family to a group of pillaging, colonizing bastards. 

Zola, for that must have been her name, knelt down next to Geralt, and he realized that Yurga and the young lad had manhandled him into the rocking chair. She was speaking, he could see her lips moving, but his head was full of noise. It was like he had just been smacked upside the head with a hammer. A bell was tolling inside his head, echoing in the chambers of his ears. Her face shifted in and out of focus, at one point even splitting into two before merging back together. He was very tired. That was all. Tired from the long journey and in need of a good sleep and some food.

Ciri stayed with Geralt through it all. She was speaking too, exchanging words with Yurga and Zola, a tiny hand resting on Geralt’s arm. At some point, they seemed to reach an agreement, and Yurga’s son helped Geralt up and half carried him into a small bedroom, with a brightly patterned quilt. Too tired to wonder at this very much, Geralt lay down. Someone propped his leg up with a pillow, and Ciri was there, handing him tea and speaking softly. He could hear her a bit now; the deafening ringing in his ears had dimmed along with the pain in his leg. The words that came out of her mouth made no sense, though. Except for the part where she was telling him to sleep. Geralt supposed he could manage that.

\----

When he woke next, Geralt felt worlds better. He pushed himself up on his hands, and found that he was still lying on the bright red quilt, leg propped up with extra cushions. Someone had clearly cleaned the wound and put new bandages on it while he was sleeping, and there seemed to be some sort of numbing salve on his leg as well, dulling the pain. Whatever remnants of fever that had reared their ugly head when he had found Ciri were gone now, and his vision was no longer blurry with exhaustion. Sighing, Geralt eased himself back against the headboard of the bed, resting his head against the wall. Through the window, he could see the rain had cleared, and that there was sun shining down on the damp, green grass. Grass not yet trampled by a horde of bloodthirsty Nilfgaardian soldiers. It appeared their luck had held.

After a moment of getting his bearings and waiting for his dizziness to clear, Geralt swung his legs over the edge of the bed and tested his weight, leaning on the bedpost. Pain shot through his thigh and he winced, but it was manageable. He would be limping for days yet, but he was probably well enough to travel. The wound was no longer festering, it wouldn’t take long for it to close now. Satisfied, he hobbled to the door, keeping one hand on the wall, and pushed it open.

A homey scene greeted him, and for a moment Geralt was loathe to intrude. Ciri and Zola were sitting by the fire, Ciri by the hearth and Zola in the rocking chair. She was knitting, the needles clacking softly together, and she and Ciri were engaged in some sort of conversation, the girl using her hands to describe something. Yurga sat in a chair at the table, counting coins, and one of the boys was in the kitchen, probably boiling water for tea. Geralt nearly turned around, not wanting to bother them, but before he could, Ciri shot to her feet and hurried to his side.

“Geralt! You’re awake! Here, I can help you over to the fire.”

She extended her arm, but Geralt brushed it off and limped his way over on his own, uneven steps thumping dully on the floorboards. Zola stood from her rocking chair, and shot him a look that dared him to protest. He eased himself down without comment, stifling a groan as he stretched his leg out by the fire. Ciri snatched up a small stool from the other side of the hearth and Geralt rested his foot on it, feeling relieved. She looked oddly satisfied, he thought. Calanthe’s fiery eyes and determined disposition had been carried in Pavetta’s blood and on to Ciri’s, it seemed. 

After a moment of silence, Ciri leaned her back against the rocking chair and looked up at Geralt with wide eyes. The clacking of Zola’s knitting needles stopped for a moment, and Geralt caught the woman’s smile before she looked down at her work once again.

“You’re alright?” Ciri’s voice trembled a bit, and Geralt immediately realize how much he must have frightened her, despite the brave face she had put on. She had seen far too much death to expect anything better to happen to the people she loved.

“Fine. I was just tired. The wound’s healing well now.”

“Can I see?”

Geralt considered for a moment, and his mind struck back to all the bleeding wounds he had seen as a boy at Kaer Morhen. His brother’s backs, after a beating. Their broken bodies after the Trials. A Witcher, returning to the keep after an accident on the path. Many had died. But the older Witchers had never hidden this from the boys, never made it seem like anything less or more than the natural way of things, the cycle of life. There had been something Geralt had found profoundly comforting in that. Death was normal. So was injury. There was no need to be afraid of it, especially not in the world they lived in, where one could scarce walk five miles without encountering someone screaming in pain from a life threatening wound or dying of the plague. He pulled the bandage down and poked the greenish poultice aside. Ciri inspected it curiously.

“Why didn’t you stitch this? It seems like a wound that would take well to stitches. I’ve seen cuts like it before, on my grandmother’s soldiers in Cintra. The healers were always sewing them together again.”

“Ghouls have a poisonous venom. A bite from one would be deadly to you. It nearly was to me. If I had stitched it shut, I would have simply enclosed the venom inside myself, as opposed to letting it drain naturally.”

Interest sparked in Ciri’s green eyes. Geralt supposed she hadn’t had much of a chance to learn about such things being raised as a Princess in a fine castle. She would grow used to it soon enough, he thought with a tinge of sadness.

“Can you teach me?” The girl asked him, eyes bright and wide, “Can you show me how to fight like you, so I can defend myself from ghouls, and werewolves, and all sorts of hideous things? And…men? When they come for me?”

Geralt’s heart sank into his boots at her comment. She knew they were coming. Knew they would never rest until they found her and ended her life. It hurt, to know that she knew such a thing. She bore it very well, he thought.

“Yes.”

“And will you stand by me? When they do come?”

“Of course.”

Ciri nestled into Geralt’s leg, seeming more relaxed than he had seen her since their encounter in the forest. Over the top of her blond head, Geralt caught Zola’s soft smile.


	26. Split

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt gets himself into a situation. Nenneke helps him out of it. Geralt is incapable of listening to his body.
> 
> CW: Blood and vomiting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AHAHAH this chapter very much appealed to my head canon that Geralt is actually, clinically incapable of understanding that his body has limits that he shouldn't push. I also love writing Nenneke and there's not enough good content with her in it out there.
> 
> As an aside, sitting people up with a concussion is...not a real thing. Despite what you might have heard. I'm doing it solely for the whump. Don't try at home.

It was nearly dark by the time Geralt found himself stumbling through the woods that skirted the Temple of Melitele. Certainly, dusk had approached. The trees and forest floor were alive with the activities of waking nocturnal creatures, so much so that the air seemed to hum with a strange sort of electricity. Of course, that could have been Geralt’s head, as well. Everything felt like it was humming. He rubbed at his eyes wearily, digging his knuckles into the sore flesh, and the world tipped like the pitching deck of a Skelligan ship. His hands came away sticky with blood. He observed them, and some unsettled part of his brain registered that he should probably be alarmed about this. But his heartbeat stayed steady, sluggish. Placing a hand on a conveniently located tree to stop the nauseating rocking of the forest floor, Geralt took a few panting breaths. Just a few more steps. A few more steps, and then he would be safe. Perhaps the pounding in his head would even cease. Nenneke, despite all her grumbling, was good to him. Too good. She often wasted valuable poppy’s milk on his stupid wounds, even though she was well aware that he was accustomed to pain. He usually tried to talk her out of expending such expensive luxuries on him. This time, though, Geralt felt like he would almost be inclined to accept the pain relief without question. His head felt as though it were split in two.

To be fair, it probably was, or near that, at least. He had taken on a contract for a werewolf, almost a day’s journey to the South. The people of the village had claimed that the beast was vicious, cunning, and even in its human form had displayed exceptional bloodthirstiness. Geralt had taken their cautions with a grain of salt, dismissing them as the fearful murmurings of a village plagued by a beast they did not understand. However, he now wished he hadn’t taken their warnings quite so lightly. He had come across the beast when it had already transformed, but it had retained a greater than normal degree of human intelligence. So much so that it had stayed armed, and while Geralt was trying to reason with it, find a way out of having to outrightly kill the thing that had once been a man, it had attacked. First Roach, who had died gruesomely. Then, it had gotten in a blow with what had appeared to be a smith’s hammer before Geralt could kill it. Apparently, in a better life, this werewolf had been the village’s smith. No wonder they had been unable to take it down, with no one to make and repair their weapons,. In any case, he had woken several hours later, completely disoriented, soaked in his own blood. The wound was so extensive that Geralt couldn’t even find the worst part, where the majority of the blood was coming from. It was all he could do to keep on stumbling forwards, trying to keep his feet underneath him as he swallowed back nausea and dizziness so extreme he could hardly tell which way was up. 

There were night creatures chirping now. He opened his eyes, not having noticed he had closed them, to find himself curled up under a large tree that swayed nauseatingly in the light breeze. He had lost time, that much was clear. Hauling himself to his feet and stopping momentarily to vomit in the bushes as the world shifted yet again, Geralt sent up a small thanks that he had not simply died in his sleep. Falling unconscious while as badly concussed as he found himself now would almost certainly have been a death sentence for a regular man. As it was, Geralt could barely stumble from tree to tree. When the forest cleared, he fell to his knees. He could see the gate to the temple, all red wrought iron, beyond which the sound of fountains whispering softly called to him. Just a little further, and then he would get some respite. But he could not walk. His arms were so shaky he could barely crawl, and before he really understood what was happening, Geralt found himself face first in the grass. It swam dizzyingly before his eyes. The impact of falling had jolted his head, and it rang unbearably. Geralt could feel fresh blood running down his face and neck, coating the grass around him. He couldn’t move, and his heart pounded in his head, sending more blood flowing from the enormous wound. Every inch of him hurt, and he realized he was trembling uncontrollably. 

Later, Geralt would not be able to say how long he lay outside those gates, shaking so much he got dizzy again and vomited, unable even to turn away from his own body. When he was finished retching, the sky, which was light now, whirled above him like a pinwheel at a mayday fair. He had been to one of those with Jaskier once. They had drunk good ale, he remembered. And eaten chicken roasted on a spit and vegetables cooked in horseradish and heavy cream, and then he had a strange memory of the bard tucking a bluebell behind his ear with a ridiculous, drunken grin on his face. And Geralt had left it there. Strange, he thought. He had always liked bluebells. They had grown in great abundance near the cottage where he had lived with Visenna, in the time that he had been happy.

Eventually, when the sun was beating down on his too-sensitive eyes and he was too weak to roll over or raise an arm to shield himself from the light, Geralt heard a soft gasp of surprise, and the sound of rushing feet. Someone’s hand, which was blissfully warm, closed around his arm. He groaned, unsure if it was out of relief or agony. The pain had long ago become such a constant that he could barely remember what it was like to live without a head that had been split open like a piece of fruit. He had not realized how cold he was, though. The blood, which had been hot when it had spilled from his scalp, had congealed into a cold, sticky mass on his head and shoulders. The warmth of the hand was better than that of a fire after a day spent trekking through the mountains. Geralt leaned into it, completely devoid of any sense of what was happening, only knowing that he was hurting and tired and cold and that there was now a source of warmth making itself readily available. He melted into it, and the hand came to cup his cheek sweetly for a moment, before vanishing. Geralt felt a pitiful sound leave his throat at the loss. He did not care. He just wanted the warmth back. His shivering was uncontrollable, rocking his broken body and making him incredibly sensitive to even the slightest touch. Even his shirt scratched miserably against his hurting skin.

Just when Geralt thought that surely his convulsive shivers would rend his bones apart and cause him to die of the shock of it, the footsteps returned. They reverberated on the ground and hurt his head even more; it was by this metric that some semi-conscious part of his brain determined that there was now more than one set of feet coming towards him. He couldn’t manage to wrench his eyes open past blurry slits of blinding light, but he recognized the white robes of the Sisters of Melitele. As well as a dark line that appeared to be Nenneke’s leather belt, the one she always wore. There were voices circling Geralt like leaves tossed about in a gale, but they were no more than noise to his ears. Then, several sets of warm hands clamped around his shoulders and arms and hauled him upright. Lights flashed before his closed eyes, and vomit dripped from his mouth as the world was once again turned on its head. He choked and gagged, was too weak to lift his chin from where it bounced against his sternum. Someone was rubbing his back, but it did nothing to assuage the pain of his cramping gut, the unbearable fire in his head. It did sent the cold away a bit, though. Geralt was grateful for that, he reflected sleepily as the toes of his boots bounced across the grass. When the grass turned to stone, he let his eyes slip the rest of the way shut. Surely, Nenneke would take care of the rest. She wouldn’t be happy about it, she was never happy about having to stitch him up and pump him full of drugs after he had failed to take care of himself. But she did it anyways, and with the utmost care, so that Geralt invariably woke feeling considerably better than how he had passed out. That was enough of a gift, enough of a reassurance for him. He almost welcomed the priestess’s reprimands. It meant he would be alright.

A part of him wondered, groggily, as he slipped into sleep, if she would be able to reprimand him this time.

\----

There was something at his back. Something soft, that felt like the back of a plush armchair. A strange way to wake, Geralt thought, considering that his last memories involved bleeding fiercely from his head as he stumbled through the woods. Usually, whoever found him would have either taken a sword to this throat or (in less likely cases) taken him to a bed where he could lie down and rest. 

As he became more aware, he realized there was a cottony fuzziness in his mouth that only ever occurred when he had been given something strong to help with pain. Even through this, though, Geralt’s head ached and pounded in time with his slow pulse. He brought up a shaky hand and found bandages wrapping around his skull, his hair pulled haphazardly out of the way in a loose braid. He winced. Even moving his hand had set him off balance, and he tipped sideways, his head smacking into what must have been one of the wings of the armchair. Stars exploded in front of his eyes, and he gagged and blacked out for a moment.

When Geralt’s consciousness returned, he sensed he was not alone. There was another heartbeat in the room, though his brain was still to scrambled to focus on it, and he could feel someone’s breath on his face. Something cold was smoothing its way over his mouth, and he realized belatedly he must have vomited on himself. Repulsed, but too tired and ill to care, he sagged to the side and let the person clean him up as best the could. When they were done, a blanket was wrapped around his legs, and he sighed with belated relief. He hadn’t realized he had been shivering. 

It took an inordinately large amount of time after he woke for Geralt to get his bearings well enough to speak. He didn’t want to risk opening his eyes quite yet. Now that he was more aware, he could feel the sharp tightness of stitches pulling at the back of his scalp, and knew that allowing light to enter his pupils right now was a dangerous game.

“Did I make it?” His words came out slurred and he felt like he was chewing on a lump of wool when he spoke, but at least he had managed to speak. It was an improvement on his last memories before losing consciousness. 

There was a derisive snort, and Geralt immediately recognized Nenneke’s tone in the breath. He had definitely heard this particular snort many times before. In a way, it relieved him. It meant he would, in all likelihood, recover. Despite how little he felt like that was a possibility at the moment.

“By that, I’m assuming you’re speaking of your ill-advised journey here with your skull nearly split in half, and not whether you are, in fact, alive. Though the answer to both of those questions is yes, but barely.”

Geralt frowned, disoriented. Normally, he kept up just fine with Nenneke’s repartee. He wondered when she had suddenly started talking so much faster. And when her words had morphed from understandable dialect into muddled nonsense. Even worse was the fact that she seemed to have picked up on his confusion, and he could hear her footsteps approaching him. A hand tilted in chin rather more roughly than was needed, and he swallowed uncomfortably. Even with his eyes closed, the room seemed to tilt and spin.

“Why’m I sitting?” Once his head cleared again, this became a pressing question. It was bastard uncomfortable; Geralt’s neck was sore and bruised and he wanted very much to lie down. Preferably in a nest of very plush pillows. It sounded like something Jaskier would say. He was going soft, he thought.

“Easier to keep an eye on you. Make sure you didn’t seize up, or start bleeding in your brain. And it puts less pressure on the wound, this way. You’ve cut nearly the whole back of your head. You can lie down in a bit, once you’re a bit more yourself.”

This was probably as a good an answer as Nenneke was going to give, And Geralt couldn’t find the strength in himself to question her further at the moment. He could barely shift himself to a more comfortable position without his entire neck and head flaring up in agony.

“How bad?” Words were getting more and more difficult. It was as though someone had built up a brick wall between Geralt’s brain and his mouth. Not to mention that his tongue felt like it was swimming in syrup.

“Bad enough that I don’t want to leave you on your own for some time. You split your skull, lost more blood than I think you or I would care to admit. You’ll be here for a while, Geralt. It’s a good thing it’s midsummer, or you’d be spending the winter with us as well.”

Geralt resisted the urge to groan. He didn’t particularly fancy taking the several weeks off the path that he knew Nenneke was likely to prescribe. He had been short on coin before the whole werewolf disaster, and he shuddered to think at what the state of his purse would be when he was finally able to set out on the road again. Not only that, but he had agreed to meet Eskel in Velen in a week’s time. He didn’t want to cause his brother undue worry. However, his head was too heavy for such thoughts at the moment. He wanted to open his mouth and ask Nenneke to send word to Eskel, inform him that he was simply impaired and not dead. But the words would not come. He breathed heavily a few times, and felt the edge of a glass being pressed to his lips. Poppy’s milk coated his tongue, heavy and sickly sweet, and the last thing Geralt was aware of before falling into a deep sleep was the shudder that ran through his body as he tried stubbornly to keep himself awake.

\----

Nearly a week later found Geralt, wrapped in a cloak which he had snatched off the back of the chair in his room, limping dizzily about in the orchard. He was beginning to question the wisdom of his choice, which at the time had made so much sense. His eyes didn’t focus well enough to read, and he was very quickly tiring of staring at the blurry blobs he assumed were birds flitting by outside his window.

However, now that he was outside, the air was frozen, and he was extremely uncomfortable. His legs shook after so many days spent in bed, and he was only wearing breeches and a loose white shirt under the cloak. He had been ill as well; a fever had set in on the second day, and clearly his body was still working through the residual chills. Stumbling, Geralt shut his eyes and sat down heavily on a bench. He leaned his back against a small apple tree. The fruit dangled in front of him, tempting but not nearly ripe enough yet, no bigger than a child’s fist. He was very thirsty, now that he thought of it. And his head was swimming and pounding horrifically. Nenneke had told him that she would take out his stitches today, and they were pulling tightly against his lacerated, bruised scalp. The priestess had said his whole head was black and blue under his silver hair. 

Reaching up to cradle his aching head, Geralt sleepily watched the apple trees, heavy with growing fruit, swaying in the breeze. Belatedly, he realized he was tipping back and forth in time with the wind as well. He placed a hand on the bench to steady himself, feeling miserable now, nauseous and exhausted. Even sitting, his legs trembled under him. There was no chance he would make it back to his room on the second floor. His legs were unlikely to carry him as far as the gate to the orchard. 

Geralt leaned against the tree at his back, shutting his eyes and exhaling shakily. He was going to be sick, he was sure of it. Hopefully Nenneke would forgive him for puking all over her prized apple trees.

He woke sometime later to a hand on his shoulder, squeezing very gently to rouse him. Blinking and remembering that his vision didn’t clear that way right now, Geralt squinted up, making out the blurry shape of Nenneke’s angular face and dark hair. Her heavy eyebrows were raised, and she looked decidedly unimpressed. Geralt had the good graces to arrange his face into as near an approximation of a sheepish grimace as he could with every nerve tingling. The priestess looked on, eyebrows creeping ever higher. It was a performance she had seen many times before, Geralt knew, and not just from him. 

“Were you planning on expiring in my orchards? Or do you truly have no understanding of your body’s limits?”

Geralt grimaced. Everything in front of him was bleeding together in a dizzy, kaleidoscopic pattern. He wanted very badly to go back to bed.

“Thought I was ready.”

“So that would be yes to the second option, then.”

Nenneke reached down and offered her slender and deceptively strong arm, which Geralt took, levering himself up on shaky legs. He felt like an old man. The moment he was vertical, he slumped into the priestess’s shoulder, swallowing and trying to contain a pained groan as the orchard slid about like a shuffling deck of cards. Nenneke caught him with no effort, helped him throw his arm over her shoulder. He could feel her checking on the wound, running fingers over it to make sure it had not started bleeding again. Her annoyed sigh suggested that it had.

“You can forget having those stitches out today. I’ll have to redo them and leave them in for another several days yet. You’ve made a right mess of these.”

Geralt knew better than to let his disappointment catch on. This was a situation entirely of his own making. He leaned heavily on Nenneke, not even bothering to open his eyes again as she mostly carried him back to his chambers. When they got there, she proceeded to cut the thick black threads holding his head together. The process was agonizing, and the tugging pain had Geralt gasping and reeling, trying desperately to control heaving breaths. There was nothing that could be done for his pain, he knew. He had been strung out on opioids for days, and it would be dangerous even for his mutated physiology to continue using them any longer. Nenneke gripped his shoulder bracingly when she was done, other hand working deftly to wrap his aching head with fresh bandages. She helped him lie down, and he sighed tiredly, raising aching eyes to meet hers. There was a bit of motherly sympathy glowing in her brown eyes, a tiny crease of concern in her brows as she brushed away a bit of hair to make him more comfortable.

“I’m sorry. I though I was ready. I don’t take well to resting. The Path is where I belong. I feel useless here. I have no purpose, without the Path.”

“That’s not true. You refuse to acknowledge any purpose you might have beyond slaying beasts, for now. It won’t always be that way. You have more than a touch of destiny about you, Geralt. You know it as well as I do.”

Nenneke’s eyes were fixed on him now, fierce and bright. He almost wanted to look away. Damn priestesses and their destiny. Geralt wanted none of it. Wanted nothing to do with dooming another child to the cold walls and lethal mutations of Kaer Morhen. He could not. Not when that made him no better than Visenna. He had never told Nenneke about his mother, but he got the sense the priestess already knew. Knew and took no heed of it in her councils toward him. It was truly maddening. 

“Destiny can catch up with me when it chooses. I’ll stick to slaying beasts in the meantime, though.”

Sighing, the priestess brushed back Geralt’s hair again, under the guise of testing for a fever. He was beginning to get very sleepy, sluggish blinks taking longer and longer for him to fully rouse from. His head ached. His back was sore from leaning against the tree, and he was very dizzy and feeling decidedly unwell. Desperately hoping Nenneke did not choose to continue a conversation that he did not have the mental wherewithal to carry on, Geralt rolled painfully towards the wall.

“Rest for now, yes? No more of this ridiculousness, trying to convince yourself that you’re fine and traipsing all about this Temple. Lady Melitele is a merciful mother, but I do not think even she will be able to save you from your own stupidity forever.”

“That’s blasphemy,” Geralt snorted a bit even though it hurt his already aching head, “I’m surprised you haven’t been struck down already.”

Nenneke made a displeased noise and whacked him gently on his hand, which had ventured up and was exploring the new set of bandages wrapped around his head. The stitches itched, and he was so very tired.

“Go to sleep. There’s no point in trying to keep yourself awake when your eyes are quite literally dragging themselves shut.”

Geralt grimaced. He had been trying to keep Nenneke from noticing how exhausted and poorly he still was. Though he should have known by now that such a thing would never get by her eagle eyes. He let his lids slide shut, trying to block out the peculiar, dizzy pain that only ever came along with a bad concussion. It was harder, when he heard Nenneke slip out of the room and there was no longer anything left to distract himself with. Exhausted but unable to find rest, Geralt passed the rest of the day trying to meditate, trying to control the way his breaths trembled with pain. It was humiliating, to be brought low like this. Vesemir would be disappointed in him. Being bested by such a foe, and now lying about lazily when there were people dying, people he could have saved had he not been so idiotic. Groggily, Geralt reflected that Vesemir would not be the only one disappointed by this. He, too, held himself to higher standards. It caused him more pain than he wanted to admit to know that he had likely condemned innocent people to die by staying here. 

Tired and unable to control his thoughts anymore, Geralt slipped into a strange sort of trance, too pained to sleep, but too tired to stay fully awake. Eventually, the world and all its shifting, destiny laden layers, simply melted away.


	27. Washed Away

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While travelling through a rift-laden, dangerous valley, Geralt and Ciri are entrapped by a flash flood. Sending Ciri away to keep her safe, Geralt realizes he may have underestimated how capable his child surprise really is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Helloooo Day 27: Natural Disasters!! This was a pretty difficult one to write, so hopefully you guys all enjoy it. The terrain that Geralt and Ciri are travelling through here is based off a national park in my home country of Iceland called þingvellir, so if you want a bit more context as to what that looks like you should look it up! It's one of my favourite places in the world, and I've actually dived in the rifts there, so it seemed only fitting that I write a chapter about it. It's probably also the number one place I would like to see the Netflix show shoot some scenes once we can travel safely again...
> 
> Anyways, that's my little geology backstory for this chapter. Enjoy!!

Clouds blanketed the sky, heavy and dull as a wooden cloak. They cast the whole land into a grey silence, a thick sort of thing which almost made Geralt feel like someone had taken cotton and pressed it to his ears. The grass, green and lush, struck a stark contrast with the dullness of the sky. At least it was enjoying the benefits of several days’ worth of rain. Needless to say, Geralt was not. Though he normally did not mind the rain, travelling with a child through a sickly, heavy drizzle was a different matter entirely. Ciri never complained. But Geralt could see her shivering through her cloak, lank hair clinging miserably to her face as every gust of wind blew her hood back. She sat, hunched like a gargoyle on Roach’s back, as Geralt led the two of them through a delicate maze of submerged rifts that carved through the volcanic land. It was treacherous, to those who did not know the way. The rifts were deep, and once one fell in, there was no way to navigate your way out or even tell which way was up. Only the most experienced divers would be able to venture in and recover your corpse. And, though he was rather loathe to admit such a thing, Geralt’s heart was pounding at the thought of it. Not for himself, but for Ciri. The girl was exhausted, swaying on Roach’s back. All it would take was one misstep, one moment of carelessness on his part, and she could easily tumble headfirst into the icy water. Malnourished and weakened as she was, he doubted she would last five minutes. 

“Ciri,” Geralt stopped and put a gloved hand on her knee, wincing when he realized her pants were slick with rain, “Stay alert. We’ve only a few more miles to go before nightfall, but you must stay awake. This is no place to be losing your seat, yes?”

He gestured at the craggy edge of the rift next to them, water glimmering dully in the misty rain. Ciri’s tired eyes pulled open and she followed his gaze, swallowing a bit when she saw the sharp rocks lurking beneath the water’s surface. A tiny hand, wearing a glove of Geralt’s that was far too big for her and flopped off the ends of her fingers, shot out from under her cloak and wrapped around his arm. Her eyes were wide, fearful. And supremely exhausted.

“I’m cold, Geralt.” Ciri’s voice was no more than a whisper, but it trembled with shivers. Geralt unbuckled his own cloak, ignoring the nearly painful cold as the icy rain sliced through his thin shirt, and wrapped the wool garment around the girl’s shoulders.

“Keep that close. It should keep you warmer than whatever you were wearing in Cintra.”

Ciri nodded her thanks and tugged the huge cloak around her shoulders. It dwarfed her tiny frame, making her seem like nothing more than a grey lump atop Roach. Geralt wanted to smile at the sight, and probably would have if the conditions had been better. 

“Thank you.”

Nodding, Geralt turned away from the girl’s sad green eyes and soaked ashen hair. He needed to get her somewhere warm, and soon. It wouldn’t do if she didn’t even survive the journey to Kaer Morhen. 

The rain was picking up now, droplets mixed together with hard pieces of ice that plummeted from the sky, some the size of walnuts. Geralt winced as they pelted his face and hair, so cold and wet that it had frozen into icy tangles that were stiff and stung when they smacked against his face. Looking down, he noticed that there was a small torrent running up the narrow path on which they were walking. It covered his boots, and he could feel it beginning to permeate the leather, which had gone many months since being treated. Most worryingly, though, was that the current pressed against him, strong enough to make his legs burn the longer he walked. And it was getting deeper. 

There was a rocky crag which stuck out of the ground to the right of them. It was made of shale, probably shifted out of the ground due to some sort of volcanic fault. It would be a difficult climb, Geralt thought, but they could not stay here. What had once been a perfectly safe path was quickly turning into a gully with perfect conditions for a flash flood. And the rain was only pounding down harder. When he looked down again, the Witcher saw that the water had risen to midway up his calves. Adrenaline spiked in his stomach.

“Ciri!” 

The water was rising even faster now. Geralt could feel it overflowing into his boots, which nearly reached his knees. He shook Ciri’s knee more vigorously, and the girl started, staring in horror when she saw that Roach and Geralt were both wading through a rushing torrent that had not been there mere moments before. 

“Geralt!” Her voice was high and frightened, but she kept her head, and Geralt was eternally grateful for this, “What do I do? What’s happening?”

“It’s a flood,” Geralt found himself having to yell over the deafening rushing noise and the continuously falling rain, “You need to climb up the cliff, now! I’ll be right behind you, go!”

He wrapped his hands around her waist and shoved her against the cliff, barely waiting for her hands to find purchase on the slippery rock. She looked back at him, eyes wild and terrified.

“What about Roach? And our supplies?”

“I’ll bring her around up the side of the cliff. It’s not far, you wait for me at the top.”

The moment Geralt looked into Ciri’s eyes, he knew she had detected his lie. From what she had told him about her grandmother’s death, he supposed he should not be surprised. After all, it wasn’t the first time someone had lied to her about whether they were venturing off to meet their end. Her green eyes welled and tears threatened to spill over. Unsure of what to do, Geralt wrapped a hand around her ankle.

“I’ll be fine. You need to go, now.”

With a strong push, he sent her off up the cliff face. He thought he heard a sob, but he couldn’t be sure and didn’t particularly want to dwell on it. The rain and the ever-increasing rushing torrent of water were so loud, Geralt doubted that even he would be able to discern such a small noise above their cacophony.

Turning to begin the difficult march around to the path that led up the side of the cliff face, Geralt tried not to look back. He was too far now to help Ciri, should she fall. Besides, it was enough effort to focus on placing one foot in front of the other as the water continued to rise. It was up to his waist now, and every muscle burned as he pushed his way forwards. Roach struggled next to him, and he could see her eyes rolling with fear, gusts of misty breath escaping from her flared nostrils as she snorted and jerked at the reins. He wanted to calm her, but the truth was that he was not very calm himself, and he feared any attempts he made to put her at ease would only worsen the situation. Fear for Ciri was rolling in his gut, along with guilt and anger for allowing them to get caught in such a situation in the first place. He should have known. He had been travelling the land for years, had used this very path many times before. He should have recognized the signs, realized that the conditions were perfect for such a flood and made sure they were not trapped in the gully when it came. If Ciri died because of him, Geralt knew he would never forgive himself. 

Shaking his head to clear his mind of thoughts he knew were of no help, Geralt looked up and saw the hazy outline of a gravel path in the mist ahead. The water was lapping up well against the base of the cliff now, making even the stone path treacherous and slippery with mud. He hoped Roach would be able to navigate it; his faithful mare had been with him for many years now and the thought of losing her here caused him more pain than perhaps it should have.

They were nearly at the path when the unthinkable happened. In hindsight, Geralt would know it was an honest mistake; he had travelled by this way before, but never used this particular path to ascend the cliff. And he had also failed to account for the rushing torrent of water moving larger stones down the main road, moving them about and creating treacherous traps under the seething waters. 

He stepped down, so close to the path that he could nearly feel the gravel beneath his feet, could nearly taste the sweet relief of dragging his spooked mare out of this nightmare and going to find his child surprise. And then, just as he was about to lift his foot and begin the ascent, a stone collided with his ankle and the rock next to it. He yanked at his ankle, which had barely been bruised by the collision, and discovered it was stuck fast. And with the water now rapidly rising, Geralt knew there was no way that he would be able to both bend down and extricate his foot and keep a hold on Roach’s reins. Grimacing, he made a split second choice, and released her. 

“Go!” He snarled the words over the deafening roar, “Get out of here, go on! Find Ciri and get her to Kaer Morhen if I can’t meet you.”

Logically, he knew Roach couldn’t understand him, but he always got the sense that she understood the intent of his message, even if the words were beyond her comprehension. In this case, at least, it seemed that way, because in a flurry of scrabbling hooves and spraying mud and gravel, she ascended onto the path and cantered off into the rain, shaking the water free of her mane and whinnying. Geralt watched her go, feeling relieved that she had at least managed to make it to safety. 

Now that she was gone, though, Geralt realized he was well and truly fucked. While he had been releasing Roach, the stones trapping his left ankle had become encased with the sludgy mud that was being carried down the slope with the flood. He had a snowflake’s chance in hell of moving the stones now that they were buried under several pounds of mud and debris. Even worse, bits of trees and rocks from further up the slope were floating by, both on top and under the surface of the water. Geralt grimaced as what must have been a bit of tree trunk caught his leg, leaving a large scrape and what was sure to blossom into a colourful bruise. 

The water was up nearly to his leather chest piece now, and he let his arms float on the surface in a belated attempt to keep his balance. Mostly, he tried to drift; his caught leg keeping him in place. The water was desperately cold, and he could feel his thoughts beginning to get sluggish and slow, pulsing in time with his slow heartbeat. Geralt’s mind began to drift listlessly, and he watched as his pale hands floated atop the muddy water, fingers pruning. At one point, he caught hold of a stick and stared at it for a moment, before attempting to use it as a mechanism by which to pry his leg free. The water was exceptionally deep now; nearly up to his chin. He had stopped shivering a while ago, and as he worked at the stones around his foot, he realized that this was probably a bad sign. He could almost hear Vesemir’s voice in his head, telling him that he had to keep alert, keep awake if he wanted to survive. That no one was going to save him except himself.

With a sudden jolt that shocked Geralt so much he opened his mouth and gasped, inhaling an unhealthy quantity of water as he did so, the rocks came free. That was strange, he thought. Surely his arms, weak with cold, no longer had the strength to pry away the mud on their own. Perhaps something had knocked against the stones, dislodged them and sent them floating away with the swift, rushing current. The current was holding him now, too. The water felt almost warm, no longer frozen and his body no longer shivering. It almost felt like an embrace, to be moved along with the swiftly flowing water towards some unknown final destination. It was a good metaphor for his life, Geralt thought blearily. Yanked and tugged and finally pulled along with little resistance towards some unknown destiny, some final, predetermined end that it seemed everyone in the world but him understood. By that logic, he thought, letting himself be carried along by this flood torrent couldn’t be all bad. It was destiny, after all. Carrying him to his end. Clearly, this was how it was meant to be.

He had no idea how long he drifted. Only that when he opened his eyes, not having realized he had closed them, the sheer cliff face was still floating along next to him. From what Geralt knew of this route, he recognized he could not have travelled far. And then, by some sheer stroke of luck, a thought entered his mind. A thought of Ciri, of her huge green eyes, frightened and desperate as he had shoved her up this very cliff face, urging her to wait for him.

All of Geralt’s limbs contracted at once, a frenzied motion that lacked all coordination and sent pain lancing through his whole body. Every nerve ending, frozen from what must have been hours of exposure to the icy current, suddenly came to life all at once, and Geralt burned and choked on muddy water, and felt something bang into his ribs, cracking them. He coughed even more then, wincing at the pain but unable to stop. Water poured in and out of his mouth, and he fought against the current desperately, trying to make his way over to the rocky face, hoping against hope he was still strong enough to climb it. Every inch of him was numb, but burning with pain. He could hardly see for it, eyesight tinged with fiery redness.

“Geralt! Geralt, up here!”

The voice was shrill and desperate, and for a moment Geralt didn’t recognize it. Then, he pried his eyes open a bit further and saw Ciri’s white face, paler than the angry storm clouds above her, staring down at him. Her cheeks were a bit reddened from the cold, and she looked a wreck, soaked in tune with the landscape around her. 

As soon as he saw his Ciri, though, tears and raindrops pouring down her face as though they were one and the same, Geralt stopped jerking uselessly and put his meagre strength to use. Wincing at the sharp pain and icy numbness that enclosed his whole body, he swam painfully towards the cliff, and latched onto it with fingers that were pruned and pale. He didn’t feel the sharpness of the rock cutting into his palm, but a sudden gush of warm blood down his arm alerted him to the fact that he had cut himself. Grunting, he heaved himself out of the water and up the incline on weak, shaking arms.

Ciri had to pull him the last few feet. Geralt was surprised that she was able to; her arms were tiny and stringy and useless, but she grabbed him under the armpits and hauled him over the slope and onto the soaking grass as though he weighed next to nothing. He stared listlessly ahead, blinking at a raindrop working its way down a blade of lush grass mere inches from his nose. When he released a shaky breath, it shifted and the drop fell.

“Geralt! Look at me, please, open your eyes.”

There were no tears in Ciri’s voice now. But what had replaced it was even worse. Even over the wind and the pounding in his own skull, Geralt could hear the hollowness in her voice, the loss. She thought he was dead.

“I’m here, child.”

His voice was quiet, barely there. For a moment, he was worried the girl wouldn’t be able to hear it over the rushing of the flood and the pounding of the rain. But perhaps that noise was partially in his aching head, because she didn’t even lean in closer to catch his words, instead sighing in relief, a great gasping sob.

“Oh, Geralt! I thought…I thought you’d left me.”

He smiled weakly at this, thinking it was probably the cold that was making him act in such a way. Surely, he never would have behaved this way had he not been trembling and aching as though he had just gone ten rounds with a bear and then fallen down a steep mountain slope.

“I told you I wouldn’t. Leave you, I mean.”

Ciri giggled again at this, though there was no humour in it, just a strangled sort of relief. She brushed a soaked strand of hair out of his face with nervous, trembling fingers. Geralt closed his eyes against the rain, sighing deeply. He was very, very tired. 

“No, no, don’t go to sleep! Not yet! Please, we just need to get you somewhere where you can warm up and get dry.”

Geralt cracked his eyes back open and saw Ciri glancing around wildly, desperately. There was nowhere to shelter in these parts. Except for the towns, and Geralt knew he couldn’t take the girl there. Too many soldiers were hunting her as it was. 

“There’s nowhere to go. Just…bring me a cloak. Help me on Roach, and continue on. I’ll recover.”

Geralt lifted a heavy hand to explore his aching abdomen. Definitely cracked ribs, but they weren’t broken and he didn’t appear to be bleeding internally. He just needed this rain to stop so he could get warm again. Preferably before he became delirious and hypothermic. He couldn’t put the girl through that. Not after everything she’d already seen.

“You’ve broken your ribs, haven’t you?”

“Just cracked. They’re sore, but I’ll live. Help me up, we need to get away from here. Find somewhere warm and dry.”

There was a certain dulled exhaustion to Ciri’s normally vibrant energy. Her eyes were hooded, heavy, and she put her shoulder under his own with no complaints or questions, groaning as she tried to heave him to his feet. Geralt tried to help her, but he was so numb he couldn’t tell if he was moving his legs or not. The girl was strong, he had to give her that. She dragged him to Roach nearly all on her own, and shoved him up onto her back as though he were a particularly heavy sack of potatoes. A strange skill for a princess to have. Geralt also thought he felt his medallion vibrating energetically against his chest, but paid it no heed. There were, after all, plenty of pockets of chaos entrapped in the land, especially in these parts. It could have been anything that had caused such a reaction. And the Witcher was far too tired to care.

\----

The soft clopping noise of hooves in the mud was what woke Geralt from an uneasy, tremulous rest. He realized his head was bouncing up and down on his chin in a manner that was most uncomfortable, and when he tried to move an arm he discovered they were pinned to his sides. He jerked a few times, heart rate accelerating, and the sloshing noise stopped abruptly, along with the bouncing. There was a hurried noise of feet in the muck, and what felt like a hand on the side of his shoulder, though the feeling was very muffled. He must be wrapped in blankets, he thought belatedly. It would explain why he felt so entrapped. He struggled to free his arms.

“Stop it, or you’ll fall off the horse! Please, I can’t lift you back on again.”

The voice was small and scared, and there was an underlying shivering that made Geralt force his eyes open. For a moment, he had no idea who the voice belonged to. He was not in the habit of travelling with children; most parents wouldn’t let their youngsters within a kilometre of him, especially since Blaviken. 

She was blurry, but the moment he opened his eyes it all came rushing back, and he recognized Ciri immediately. Her blond hair, plastered to a face that was reddened and soaked with tears, and the blue cloak which was dangling sadly from her slim shoulders, which looked far to emaciated and far too cold. She was trembling. Geralt reached out his hand, though it was clumsy and when he thought he was reaching for the girl’s dampened head he came into contact with nothing but moist air. Ciri shuffled over a little bit, taking his disoriented appendage and placing it on her shoulder.

“Get up.”

Ciri leaned in to hear him, and he realized he must be talking very quietly. Strange, because every noise around him, including his own voice, seemed impossibly jarring and horrendously loud.

“What?”

“On Roach. Now. You’re frozen, and the ground is treacherous here. You’ll slip and break an ankle, and I don’t think I can carry you or tend to you at the moment. So get up.”

The speech left Geralt panting and exhausted, and he bent over Roach’s neck, wincing when the sudden movement jarred ribs he hadn’t remembered were broken. Ciri’s pale eyebrows creased together. She looked so afraid, so miserable. Geralt wondered if it was some failing of his that had led her to look this way. Probably. His memory was still very foggy.

“I’ll hurt you, though. And Roach is tired. We’ve been walking for hours.”

Geralt considered this. He certainly didn’t remember any such journey, but now that he picked his head up off his mare’s soaking neck he saw that her head was bowed, and the steam blowing out her nostrils was coming far too rapidly, the previous cloud barely having time to evaporate into the damp air before another one took its place. He patted her clumsily.

“We need…to stop.”

“You’re frozen! If…if we stop now you’ll die.” The last part of this statement was made in a horrified, hushed whisper, as though merely speaking the word might make it so.

“I won’t. I’m warming. But you aren’t. We need to stop. Find a tree, anything with a bit of shelter.”

Ciri bit her bottom lip, trembling from cold and fear, and nodded resolutely. She turned and took Roach’s reins, and after a few minutes of slogging through the mud during which Geralt nearly dozed off again, they lurched to a halt. He looked up, and saw with approval that they had come to rest under a large fir tree, a relatively dry carpet of needles coating the ground under Roach’s hooves.

“Well found, Ciri.”

Geralt struggled to free himself more fully from what he now recognized were both his and Ciri’s blankets, drenched with rainwater. He nearly cursed, but didn’t want to fault the girl. She had not spent enough time in the wilds to know that this was foolish, that now they would have no warm blankets under which to spend the night. He would make do. He always did. 

She reached up and offered him an arm, as though she were planning on helping down off Roach’s back. He brushed her off, and she tripped back as he slid to the ground and allowed his knees to buckle. The ground was soft, from the needles. It crunched under him as he hit the ground, and Geralt wanted nothing more than to lie there, broken and exhausted, face pressed into Roach’s warm, sweet-smelling leg and his knees covered with needles and sap. But Ciri was shaking his shoulder fearfully, and he could hear her asking if he was awake, if he was alright. Truthfully, Geralt wasn’t sure. He was very cold, and very tired. But he pulled himself together and offered her an exhausted grimace.

“Fine. Bring some kindling, I’ll start us a fire.”

Ciri shuffled about, and Geralt managed to get himself leaning back against the base of the tree. He rested his head against the trunk, not caring when he felt sticky sap dripping down into his soaked hair. He wrapped an arm around his ribs. Ciri would not know how to bandage them, and he couldn’t do it himself in his current state. His hands shook from the cold. An arm would be as near to support as he would get for them tonight, and until they could find a proper healer.

He must have drifted off, because when he awoke, there was a small pile of wood in a cleared area a bit away from him. Geralt smiled softly. Perhaps Ciri listened to him more than he thought. At least, she had heard him when he had told her that pine needles were extremely flammable.

“Well done,” he nodded at her, and she looked up from where she was struggling with a knot on his pack, “Bring that here, I’ll help you with it. No point in bruising your fingers.”

Geralt had to try a few times to get his Igni to take. His hands were too numb to form the sign properly, and what was normally a negligible drain on his energy from performing magic left him gasping like he had just sprinted several miles uphill. Ciri hurried to his side, supported him as he gasped and the world shifted in and out of focus. Eventually, though, a small spark caught and the whole thing burst into flames. Both of them sighed at the sudden burst of warmth, and Ciri held out her shaking hands by the flame as Geralt extracted some herbs from his pack and handed them to her, along with a flask of Erveluce he had been saving for his return to the keep.

“Drink it. It’ll warm you. Add the herbs as well, to restore your energy a bit.”

Ciri struggled with the cork on the bottle for a moment, and Geralt smiled to himself and took it back from her, popping it out with his dagger. She watched, awestruck, as he tossed the cork to the side.

“They didn’t let their princesses drink in Cintra?” Geralt chuckled, and realized belatedly it was probably a bad thing to say. He was half out of his mind with cold and pain, and simply wanted to raise the girl’s spirits. A healthy dose of relief hit him when her lips quirked up a bit.

“A princess never has to remove her own cork from her wine bottle. At least, she doesn’t when she steals a bottle from the cellar with her friends. Which is the only time I was ever allowed to drink.”

She took an enormous swig and coughed, turning red in the face and spitting nearly half of it back up. Geralt let himself laugh, wrapping a hand tighter around his broken ribs and trying to hide the groan of pain when it became too much and they twinged, reprimanding him for moving so much. Ciri was observant though, and in an instant she had recovered herself, gasping a bit, and was at his side, holding him as he coughed.

“Geralt, what am I to do? You…you’ll get ill, sitting out here in the cold. And I can’t do a thing to stop it. There’s nowhere to go, everything’s wet, and you can’t even walk.”

“I’ll be fine,” Geralt offered her another grimace as he caught his breath, helped somewhat by Ciri’s arm, which she had wrapped around his abdomen, helping to hold his aching ribs, “Just…bring a blanket here. And come sit with me. We’ll wait out the storm, and then go on. I’m more than well enough to ride, and we don’t have time to waste.”

Ciri dragged one of the sodden blankets over, grimacing a bit as it steamed from the heat of the fire. She wrapped it around both their shoulders, and snuggled up at Geralt’s side, her head leaned sweetly against his chest, over his heart. He tried to keep his breaths regular, to keep from frightening her. It was awfully hard, with the fiery pain that hit him at every inhalation. He found himself drifting, shivering a bit less now but still enough that it jostled him painfully. He rested his head on top of Ciri’s ashen hair, the colouring so similar to his own. Eventually, even the cold dimmed to a simple background noise, the pain in his ribs nothing compared to the exhaustion that was overtaking him. Ciri shifted a bit as she felt him falling asleep, and her green eyes looked up and caught his own hazy ones.

“Go to sleep, Geralt,” she whispered, and she no longer sounded afraid, “Just rest for a bit.”

It felt strange, to accept suggestions from Ciri. But he was very tired, and there were bruises blooming all over his body. Surely, a bit of rest couldn’t hurt. The rain was heavy, and even the bravest of bandits would have retreated to take shelter. They would be safe, for the time being. And Geralt was hurting, and cold, and so very tired.

He rested his head back on top of Ciri’s, which was drier now than it had been. Wrapped his shaking arm around her shoulders. And together, they slept, lulled just for a day by the gentle rustling of the dripping rain on the multitude of pine needles above.


	28. After the Barge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the barge scene in Blood of Elves, Geralt drags himself back to Oxenfurt, his leg skinned and a bit worse for wear. Lost and cold, he’s found by an old friend, who’s determined to get him to rest for a while.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So basically if you haven’t read the books all you need to know is that Geralt is being pursued by an assassin, whose henchmen attack him while he’s defending a passenger barge from a monster. His leg gets a wee bit wounded in the process. I may have exaggerated that a bit here for the sake of the whump. Oh well. That’s what you’re all here for. Enjoy!!
> 
> Prompt was reluctant bedrest.

“Gods, you look like shit!”

“Hate to be in your shoes, white-hair.”

Geralt stumbled through the narrow streets of Oxenfurt, nearly missing colliding with a merchant and doing his best to avoid the disgusted mutterings that dogged his footsteps. He knew he probably looked like death warmed over; he could hear the water mixed with blood dripping from his badly scraped legs, and there was a telltale rattle in his lungs and a heat on his brow which was unmistakable. He needed to get out of here, get off these roads before someone with an unfriendly disposition decided to take advantage of his sorry state. It had certainly happened many times before. More times than Geralt cared to admit. 

Luckily, Oxenfurt was one of the few places in the world where Geralt was not wanting for shelter. Most places, particularly in this region, he would be lucky to have an inn take him in for a doubled rate. But Dandelion kept an apartment here, mere blocks from the University. It was in excellent condition, always warm and dry, and Geralt had used it as a refuge at his friend’s behest many times over the years.

He sincerely hoped Dandelion was not frequenting Oxenfurt today, though. Geralt was miserable, cold and dripping and badly scraped, with the telltale signs of a fever from the murky water of the river, and he wanted nothing more than to lay low for a day and then continue on his way. Ciri needed him to keep travelling, regardless of his own condition. And Dandelion was very fond of prescribing extravagantly long periods of bedrest after even the simplest of wounds. And rest was simply not a luxury Geralt could afford at the moment. No matter how much he might have liked it, exhausted and beaten as he was. Damn that barge. Damn that idiotic professor and his need to catalogue every species under the sun. And damn whoever had sent Rience and his Nilfgaardian whoresons after him. Geralt almost pitied the man, when they finally, inevitably met. It would not be a pleasant experience for him.

Imminently though, Geralt could not spare a thought for Rience. His vision was clouding, and he was beginning to struggle to get enough oxygen into his aching, exhausted lungs. He needed to get to Dandelion’s apartment before he collapse in some shit-stained gutter.

The issue in doing this, however, was that all the streets of Oxenfurt looked damnably similar. Rows of houses, beams exposed with diamond-paned windows and cheerful flower baskets, stared down at Geralt, mocking him with their gentle, countryside disposition. He had not been to this part of the world in years. And his brain was too addled to accurately remember where in this pox-ridden city he might actually find Dandelion’s apartment. He couldn’t even locate the University. 

It was in such a state that Geralt found himself slumped in a gutter as it began to rain. Part of him, the more lucid part, was relieved he had not been on the barge when this downpour had begun. Fighting on a waterlogged deck would have been far too treacherous and slippery to say with certainty whether he even would have come out with his life. At the same time, though, it was nearly as miserable on land. Geralt’s oilskin cloak was waterlogged. He was shivering from cold and from a burgeoning fever, and at the moment it seemed as though he would have nowhere to stay that night but in the streets, with the rats. Not the best place to sleep off an illness. Though not the worst, either.

Geralt leaned his head back against the stone wall behind him, trying to ignore the convulsive shivers ripping through him and sending bursts of agony through his leg. They had become so bad that his head was bouncing against the stones, and there was nothing he could do to still it. Groaning quietly, he wrapped his arms around his middle in an attempt to steady himself and watched as the rainwater cascaded over the street around him. 

“Geralt? Goddess, is that you?”

Geralt had been dozing fitfully, and he was more than halfway convinced that what he heard was a feverish hallucination at this point. There had been strange noises accosting him for what felt like hours now. Everything seemed too loud, too hot, too cold, too close. And there was no one looking for him. He was utterly alone.

None of his other hallucinations had touched him, though. None of them had shaken his shoulder and wrapped what felt like a very warm, very expensive cloak around his shoulders while muttering worriedly to themselves. Geralt pried his aching eyes open. He felt as though he were made of stone, immobile apart from the convulsive shivers that wracked his frame.

“D-Dandelion?” He winced when his voice came out sounding completely garbled, teeth chattering so much he was nearly impossible to understand, even to his own ears.

“In the flesh, my friend. Though I must admit, you were the last person I expected to come across lying in a gutter in the middle of a rainstorm. How many times do I have to tell you, Geralt, you’re always welcome at my home! No more of this lying about in the cold nonsense. Especially when you appear to have scraped yourself along a good amount of rough-hewn stone.”

“Was…the riverbed. C-couldn’t find…your place.”

Dandelion leaned back and appraised him with an expression that was far too close to pity for Geralt’s liking. Though there was so much rain dripping in his eyes he was having a difficult time seeing straight. The fever probably wasn’t helping matters much, either. 

“Come with me. We’re barely a block from my apartment. Can’t have you spending the night out in the rain, especially not in this state.”

Dandelion offered Geralt a hand to help him up, but Geralt heaved himself up against the wall under his own power, staggering and leaning back for a second, heavy exhalation frosty in the damp air. He felt very shaky. Shaky, but not needing help walking. He wouldn’t have his first meeting with Dandelion in over a year happen under such circumstances. He was already disappointed enough as it was that the bard happened to be in Oxenfurt to witness this humiliating display. Though, he supposed that had he not been found, he would have been doomed to spent the night sitting in a puddle of fetid rainwater. 

The bard, meanwhile, had snorted and backed up, and was watching Geralt from under incredulous brows. When the Witcher had regained his breath and staggered forwards, shoving Dandelion’s extended arm out of the way again, he simply sighed and slowed his pace to walk beside his friend. Geralt was too focused on placing one boot in front of the other and swallowing back his convulsive coughs to notice how slowly he was moving. Perhaps that was for the best. He was embarrassed enough as it was. 

By the time they reached the small overhang that Geralt recognized as the entrance to Dandelion’s lodgings, he was gasping and exhausted, and he slumped against the wall while the bard fiddled with his keys. Luckily, the apartment was on the main floor, and it was not a very difficult thing to maneuver themselves inside the door once they were out of the immediate rain and cold. Geralt found himself being shoved towards the kitchen and abruptly his legs gave out underneath him and he found himself seated in a very overstuffed armchair. 

“Dandelion…’m getting your chair wet.” Geralt didn’t know why this was so important, just that he knew he needed to say it. Dandelion placed a great deal of value on his things, and while Geralt had never been able to understand it, he had come to know that, if he valued keeping the bard around, he needed to respect it. Ruining what appeared to be an extremely expensive chair didn’t seem like the way to go about doing that. And while panic probably wasn’t the best word to describe what the Witcher was feeling, he wasn’t exactly relaxed either. His trembling hands gripped the armrests, and he realized it was still very cold, even inside. Could Dandelion not afford to heat his home?

“Oh, come off it, Geralt. I’ll make you some tea and soup. Something to warm you. We can worry about the damn armchair later, yes? You can buy me a new one. I’ll take you to the auction houses by the dock. They’re wonderful; I’m sure even you would find something to suit your fancy there.”

What a strange thing to say, Geralt thought. He didn’t think he had ever been to an auction in his life. And he definitely didn’t require anything new. Though, it seemed only fair that he replace Dandelion’s chair after this little incident.

“Here, it’s chamomile. Sorry I don’t have anything better, I must admit I haven’t been at home as much as I might like recently. There’s soup cooking on the stove. Now, let me take a look at that leg before you go to bed, yes?”

Geralt blinked. Bed? Surely, he just needed a roll of bandages and to dry his clothes by the fire. Besides, it was barely noon. He still had half a day to fill, and plenty of things to do. A little spark of panic bloomed in his chest. He needed to be moving on, not indulging the bard’s fancies.

“‘M fine. Let me dry off...a-and I’ll leave you be.” His chattering teeth rather ruined the forceful effect he had been hoping for. He clenched his jaw, trying to get the tremors under control. This damn room was freezing. Perhaps he should pay for coal so Dandelion could heat his place instead of replacing the chair.

“You’ll do no such thing. Gods, Geralt, your leg looks half degloved,” Dandelion shuddered at the use of this word, “And you’re shivering and coughing so much that if I didn’t know better I’d say you’d caught the plague. So, let me bandage you up, and then I’ll be so kind as to let you borrow my bed. It has a feather mattress and everything. Not that you’d notice. Half the time I think you prefer the cold, hard ground to a soft bed.”

Geralt took this time to examine his leg, which did truly look to be in quite a state. It was odd, he thought, that he couldn’t feel any pain from it. The skin was properly scraped away, and there were several shallow gashes in the shape of teeth. He prodded at it, only to have Jaskier slap his hand away.

“Lay off it, your hands are filthy. You’re as likely to kill yourself with infection as to help it at this point. Let’s get you out of these wet things, and then I’ll clean it for you. You can borrow some of my trousers, too. Those ones are ruined.”

Geralt began the increasingly difficult task of struggling out of his leather jacket and shirt. He hadn’t expected to encounter anything too dangerous on the barge, and had forgone his armour, leaving it with a friend in a tavern before he had set out. It was a fact he was greatly relieved for now, he didn’t think he could have gotten out of it on his own. As it was, the moment his shirt was covering his face, Geralt became so disoriented that he collapsed dizzily back against the chair and felt Dandelion hauling the garment off the rest of the way and cutting away his ruined trousers. They were replaced with a soft wool blanket, which he drew around his shivering shoulders gratefully, trying unsuccessfully to suppress some liquidy coughs. The bard patted him gently on the back and waited until the fit passed before he slipped down and began running tender fingers over Geralt’s leg.

“Fuck, what got you? These tooth marks are the size of my arm!”

“Was…” Geralt searched for the strange word the professor on the barge had named it, but came up empty-handed, “Something interesting.”

Dandelion snorted and retrieved a roll of bandages from a cabinet in the kitchen.

“And dangerous. Although I suppose those two things are one and the same to you, hmm? Can you lift your leg up and rest it on this stool, so I can get better access to it? Gods, don’t hurt yourself, here, I’ll help you. There, does that feel a bit better?”

It didn’t, Geralt could feel a fever emerging in full force under his skin and his leg had begun to hurt now, but he nodded tiredly, trying not to assume too much of a hangdog expression. Dandelion rubbed some salve on his leg, something with peppermint in it by the scent and mild tingling, and wrapped it with clean bandages. It was the best care he had had in quite some time. By the time the bard was done, he was nearly asleep, head nodding off and then jerking back upright when he realized what was happening. He didn’t want to fall asleep here. Not where Dandelion would be, no doubt fretting for every second that he slept off his injuries. That wouldn’t be fair to the bard. He needed to leave, find somewhere private to lick his wounds.

“Can you walk? Come on, the bedroom’s this way. I’ll bring you some soup and something for the fever in a moment, yes? You just try to get some rest.”

Geralt lurched to his feet and wrapped the blanket around his shoulders, but instead of making for the door Dandelion was gesturing at, he stumbled towards the door. When he got there, he leaned heavily on the frame, teeth chattering and breaths heaving convulsively in his chest.

“And just where do you think you’re going, looking like that? You haven’t even got any clothes.”

“…Away. Too much of an inconvenience. Besides…Rience…he’s looking for me. Could kill you.”

“Nonsense. You’re in no condition to go anywhere. It’s pouring rain, you’ve a fever and I don’t even know how you’re still standing on that leg. Come, I’ll heat some bricks to keep you warm.”

Geralt could feel himself weakening. He tried to fight it, truly he did. But he had known from the start that his protestations were mostly for the sake of keeping up appearances, mostly a flimsy front in case, just this once, Dandelion decided to indulge him. As the bard approached him, he allowed his arm to be draped around the shorter man’s shoulders, and he limped his way back to the bedroom, trying to take as much weight as possible. After all, he didn’t want to appear to be a complete invalid, or Dandelion would never let him leave.

When they got to the bedroom, Geralt saw that there was a fire burning merrily in the hearth, and it caused him to wonder how he was still so cold. There must have been something in the water, something making him feverish. He just wanted to feel warm again; it felt like it had been months since he had last been contentedly heated by a crackling fire.

Dandelion dragged Geralt over to the bed, and eased him back onto the headboard, even going so far as to pull up the covers and help him lie down against an enormous quantity of feather-filled pillows. Geralt tried to brush his hands away; this was an unnecessary indulgence, he didn’t even need to be abed. But Dandelion was far stronger than he was at the moment, and the blankets were deliciously soft and warm. He sighed with relief when the bard slipped a warmed brick in by his feet. It was weak, yes. But it allowed a bit of warmth to seep back into his shivering, damp frame. Even his hair was finally beginning to defrost and dry out a bit.

“You get some rest, yes? I’ll be back in a bit with something for you to eat.”

Geralt’s eyes were mostly shut before Dandelion had closed the door, the dull ache in his leg and the watery harshness fading into nothing more than background noise next to the heat of the fire and the comfort of a real, soft bed.

\----

Several days later found Geralt with significantly less patience, and a very nasty cough. His leg was almost completely healed; a few days of rest and staying off it and all that remained were the large scratches from the beast’s teeth, which Dandelion cleaned religiously every few hours, even though it was no longer strictly necessary. The cough, however, refused to budge, as did the low-grade fever that left Geralt feeling just miserable enough that he did not feel up to getting out of bed, but aware enough that he realized he had far more important matters to attend to. 

Throughout all of this, Dandelion had been a model of patience. Though, he spent most of his time in the front room, composing as far away from Geralt’s mood as he could. This morning, though, he had brought his breakfast in and was eating with the Witcher, who was propped up on a mound of pillows and sipping at a mug of tea, coughing wetly into his elbow.

“You know, it’s no inconvenience to have you here,” Dandelion was saying as he took enormous bites out of a peach pastry, “Really, I like seeing you. And I hate to think of you suffering through this alone in the wilds somewhere.”

Geralt took another sip of his tea and slumped back a bit, now that the coughing had abated.

“I’ve places I need to be. And this can’t be easy on your coin purse.” His voice was raspy; he had only recovered his ability to speak yesterday after two days of being completely without a voice.

“Hush, save your voice for when you have something less ridiculous to say. And no, don’t even think about suggesting leaving today. You’re ill and feverish, and I’ll not have it.”

“Don’t you want your bed back?”

“Not a bit. The sofa is surprisingly comfortable, and should be too. I spent a small fortune on it.”

Geralt allowed himself a small smile; Dandelion was nothing if not extravagant. He set the mug down on the bedside table with a shaky hand, and pulled the blankets up, shivering as the fever ebbed and flowed under his flesh. Dandelion pressed the back of his hand to the Witcher’s forehead and frowned, making a displeased noise.

“I take the heat on your brow to mean you don’t feel up to eating anything better today?”

“No.”

The bard leaned back, eyes flashing worriedly.

“Are you sure I shouldn’t be more concerned about this? You’ve had a fever for days now, and your cough is getting better far more slowly than it should.”

“Had a rough month.”

“You look it.”

They settled into a companionable silence then, broken only when Geralt devolved into coughing miserably again. After a few hours of Dandelion reading his book and Geralt watching the fire with sleep-heavy eyes (he was unable to focus for long enough to read), the Witcher felt himself drifting off to sleep. Groggily, he felt the pillows moving, probably as Dandelion dusted them. They had fallen into a routine of sorts, the bard helping him when he grew too tired and needed to sleep again, and in return Geralt doing his best to mitigate his black mood. Geralt was unable to keep his eyes open for longer than a few hours, and though it was a bit humiliating he was glad Dandelion was here. The bard could keep watch, he thought, while he slept away his illness in relative peace.


	29. Just A Little Secret

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier meets Geralt on the road. Something is revealed that the Witcher had hoped to keep hidden. Feelings are had.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We’re nearly at the end of this and I’m very sad about it. I have one more chapter of Lilacs to post as well and then...idk what to do next. I have some ideas. And thoughts. And stuff. But I don’t know. So, please, if you have any Witcher-related whumpy ideas that you would like to see turned into a 100K word fic, PLEASE send me a message here or on Tumblr at aloe-casia. I require inspiration and I would be so happy to write you the fic of your dreams. That’s all. Enjoy!!

The sound of horse’s hooves on the road didn’t alert to anything being amiss. In fact, quite the opposite. A road where there were no signs of travel was often the most dangerous; avoided by locals due to bandits or monsters or some combination of the two. Usually, Dandelion liked to follow other travellers, and he had been concerned at the lack of them as he journeyed through this part of Novigrad. It was not a war-torn area, and he had not seen any bodies, so he hoped it was simply that he had taken a back road not often used by people who knew of a better way. All the same, though, the sound of hoofbeats was a welcome relief after three days of listening to nothing but his own boots crunching against the ground and the lonely strumming of his lute, impossibly loud against the background of spruce trees, dark and ominous. He had been too nervous even to sing; everyone knew that a troubadour travelling alone was an easy target, especially when he was humming to himself, caught deep within the rifts of his own compositions. Even though it was relatively safe, Novigrad was not a place to let one’s guard down.

Slipping off to the side of the road (it always paid to see if the person approaching was friend or foe before making oneself seen), Dandelion listened as the rider approached. When he peered out from behind the tree were he was standing, he immediately recognized the horse, and had to keep from giving a little shout of joy. Geralt disapproved of such things. And after having gone almost a year without seeing his friend, the bard wanted to start on as good a note as possible.

He slipped out from behind the tree with considerably more spring in his step, and jogged to meet Roach, who was plodding up the road. She looked muddy and tired, and Dandelion reached out and gave her a gentle scratch on the nose, surprised when Geralt didn’t admonish him or acknowledge his presence. He looked up.

Geralt looked exhausted. There were bags under his eyes, as though he hadn’t slept for several nights, and though his back was straight and his hands firmly looped around the reins, there was an unspoken element of bone-deep weariness that inhabited every aspect of his appearance. Even his clothes were strange; instead of the armour he usually wore when he was travelling, the Witcher had on nothing but brown leather pants and a white shirt, across which was slung his sword harness. The shirt was unfastened nearly halfway down his chest, revealing a good deal of the scars that Geralt was normally so careful to keep hidden.

“Hello, Witcher dear! Fancy seeing you in these parts. It has been a while, hasn’t it?”

Geralt looked up, as though he had been dozing and not realized that the bard was there at all. His brows crinkled. 

“Dandelion.”

“Really, is that any way to greet an old friend? It’s been ages since we saw each other last. Come, you look done in. Shall we find a place to camp? I have stories to tell you, and several loaves of bread in my pack.”

The Witcher perked up immediately at the mention of bread, and nodded gratefully, allowing Roach to follow the bard off the road until they found a suitable clearing. When they arrived, Dandelion swung his lute gaily off his shoulder, chattering mostly to himself about the adventures he had had since he and Geralt had last parted ways. It was several minutes later when he looked up and saw the Witcher making his way stiffly off Roach, far too stiffly for a man that the bard had seen kill several water hags at once, all of whom were coming at him from different directions. Immediately, Dandelion set his things down and hurried over, arriving just as Geralt’s boots landed on the ground with a thump and a poorly hidden grunt. The bard put a worried hand on his friend’s shoulder.

“Really, Geralt, you look pale. Are you sure you’re alright?”

Geralt nodded, brushing away Dandelion’s hand, but as he did so, his shirt shifted. Dandelion reached out and snatched the loosened neckline, pulling it away even as the Witcher snarled at him, twisting away a bit.

“Geralt! Is this what you call alright?”

Geralt had gone limp now that Dandelion had seen, and the bard pulled forwards on the collar of his shirt so violently that it sent him stumbling forwards, nearly into the bard’s embrace. Under his shirt, bandages were wrapped from his navel all the way up to under his armpits, and it looked like it had been several days since the wounds had seen any attention. There were dark brown patches of blood seeping through the white fabric, dried and flaking away in some places. Instantly, the stiffness of the Witcher’s posture, the exhaustion smudged so clearly under his eyes, made far too much sense. Dandelion stilled for a moment, caught between slapping his friend and bundling him up in as many warm blankets as he could find. 

“Come, sit down. I’ll deal with Roach, and then you can tell me exactly how this happened while you rest and eat some proper food.”

“I’m fine…” Geralt tried to brush off the bard’s worried hands, but he seemed uncoordinated, either with exhaustion or because moving his arms pained the wounds at his side. Dandelion wrapped an arm around the taller man’s shoulders and escorted him over to a tree, leaning him against it and watching as he sagged to the ground. His arms were wrapped protectively around his chest, and each breath came in a sharp hitch now that he no longer seemed to be trying to hide his pain. 

Quickly, Dandelion unsaddled Roach and turned her out on a picket, before returning to find Geralt leaned back in the same position in which the bard had left him, fiddling listlessly with a piece of grass. He looked even more exhausted now that he had nothing to occupy his mind with.

“Geralt,” Dandelion began gently, not wanting to alarm his friend, “I really thought we were past all this. The hiding away your wounds, pretending nothing was wrong. Surely I’ve seen you in enough bad states by now that it doesn’t matter.”

As he talked, he reached out and lifted the hem of Geralt’s shirt gently, hissing now that the dirty bandages were exposed in the afternoon light. They looked horrible; the blood was crusted on so thickly in some places that Dandelion was surprised Geralt could bend his torso at all. That was, if the wounds were of a nature that allowed him such a range of motion in the first place.

“You’ve made a right mess of these. Is this how you treat your wounds when I’m not with you? I’m surprised you’re still alive.”

Geralt grunted and fiddled with the end of the bandage, which was frayed and ripping away.

“Stitches pull when I try to change them,” the words were barely more than a breath, “Couldn’t do anything about it once I left the healer. I’m too stiff.”

“Well, luckily for you, you’re not on your own anymore. I assume you have some fresh bandages in your pack?”

Geralt nodded, and taking a bracing breath he heaved himself to his feet before Dandelion could stop him, limping sorely over to where the bard had deposited his bag and retrieving the bandages. He kept an arm wrapped protectively around his torso the whole time, hissing when he had to bend over to retrieve his things. He limped back then, carrying a waterski, a clean cloth and a roll of relatively clean bandages. He tossed them on the ground, fixing a rather predatory eye on the bard as he sank back to his original spot at the base of the tree. Dandelion sighed in exasperation.

“You know I could have done that and saved you the pain.”

Geralt grunted and shrugged, shifting uncomfortably. His knuckles were whitening.

“Now, is anything broken, or do you just have some wounds that were stitched?”

“Nothing’s broken. Some cracked ribs, perhaps. Healer made me leave before she could ascertain.”

Dandelion hissed irritably, deciding he would discuss the matter of this healer with Geralt after his wounds were seen to. Gently, he unwrapped the bloody bandages. The blood became fresher once he had unravelled several layers, but the fabric was sticking to his skin, and the Witcher gritted his teeth to muffle a groan when the bard pulled away the final layer. Upon seeing the wounds, Dandelion let out an outraged splutter, tossing the bandages to the side and placing shaking fingers on Geralt’s pale, mauled torso.

“You call these stitches? Geralt, I’ve seen shirts mended better.”

The Witcher shrugged painfully, peering down at his wounds without bending his torso more than was absolutely necessary. There were two great slashes that extended from the middle of his stomach and around his ribs, one below the other. The injuries were miserable looking, red and swollen around thick black threads, the kind used for darning scarves and socks but certainly not wounds. Blood and clear fluid oozed from the stitches, and Dandelion observed immediately that instead of having been sewn together with individual sutures, Geralt skin had been pulled together with one continuous thread, in the way one would sew a doublet. He groaned, and took a moment to lean his palm into his hand.

“This is a mess. Whoever did this to you should be practicing on corpses, not living people. Great Goddess, do you want me to take the stitches out and start over again?”

Looking painfully tired, Geralt blinked up at him and shook his head slowly. He had paled even at the thought of it, face now nearly as white as his bloodless knuckles.

“It’s healing well enough. Common practice, in small settlements. The difference between sutures and stitching up clothing isn’t as commonly known as you university-educated types seem to think it is. Especially in places where the most severe wounds they usually see is a broken ankle from a farming accident or a crushed chest from a kicking horse.”

“Honestly, Geralt. I don’t know how you’re so blaze about all of this when you’re the one with a chest that looks like it’s been stitched together with a darning needle.”

“Better than dying.” Geralt’s voice was fading fast now, and he looked like he wanted to nod off and sleep. His chest was also beginning to develop gooseflesh in the chill autumn air. Dandelion shook himself.

“We can discuss the vagaries of village healing some other time, when you aren’t literally flayed open in front of me.”

Geralt leaned back, one leg extended and the other pulled up a bit, while Dandelion wiped his wounds as gently as possible with the cloth and the water from the skin. His eyes creased a bit in pain, and every once in a while he would wince, but other than that he showed no sign of how much his chest was probably paining him. As the days-old blood began to wash away, a tapestry of gruesome-looking bruises also became apparent on the Witcher’s torso. They ranged from blackish purple to brilliant green, and Dandelion thought it was a wonder that Geralt was able to sit upright, let alone ride. If he hadn’t known better, he would have suspected internal bleeding as well. 

By the time the bard was done, the once white rag was a rusty brown, and Geralt was nodding off sleepily against the tree. He roused when the repetitive motion of the cleaning stopped, and lifted his abdomen so Dandelion could wrap the clean bandages around him and slip a clean shirt, one of the bard’s own, over his head. He raised an eyebrow at this, breathing in the smell that was not his own.

“My pack was closer. Didn’t want to leave you out in the open air for too long. You’re shivering.”

“Would’ve been fine.”

Very stiffly, Geralt pushed himself up against the tree, grimacing and leaning back against it once he was upright on shaky legs. Dandelion shot to his feet next to him, one hand outstretched should the Witcher fall, but he managed to keep himself upright. His hands remained wrapped around him, and he limped a few paces to his bag, from which he extracted a cloak. Then he stood, tiredly, and made uncomfortable eye contact with the bard.

“Could you…” he gestured frustratedly at the cloak, which was hanging limply in his hands. As soon as the bard caught on, he nodded and bounded over. Geralt could barely move his arms, there was a snowflake’s chance in hell he was getting the garment on by himself.

“Of course! You should sit down, you know. You look as though you’ve been travelling on these for days. And then you can tell me exactly what happened, if you’re not too tired.”

Dandelion clasped the cloak at Geralt’s pale throat, and took his arm. The Witcher didn’t protest as Dandelion helped him sit, leaned him back again against a log, got a small fire going. Once the bard was sitting next to him, Geralt took a shallow breath.

“A graveir, up in the mountains. Got me before I killed it. Woke up in the village inn, people gawking at me as the healer stitched me up. Left as soon as I could stand.”

“Always so stingy with the details, my friend.”

“Not much more to tell. I’ve been travelling ever since. Waiting to heal before I took another contract.”

Jaskier nodded and settled closer to his friend. Geralt was either too tired or too sore to move away, and he leaned a bit into the bard’s warmth.

“I’m glad, you know. That you’re alright.”

“Hmmm.” 

Geralt was fading fast now, his hands, which had previously clutched so tightly at his injuries, had begun loosening their hold. His eyes were falling shut, and every few seconds his head would fall forward, only for him to jerk it back up with a heaving gasp.

“You know, you can sleep. It looks like it’s been days since you last had a proper rest.”

“Weeks.”

Dandelion was not surprised, but his heart sank all the same. This was not the first time Geralt had experienced bouts of severe insomnia, but it was never pleasant, and he looked about ready to drop.

“We need to clean those wounds again in the morning, and I’m not letting you out of my sight until you’re healing better than you are now. So get some sleep, let me keep watch, and in the morning we’ll get you some food and something for the pain.”

When he looked over, Dandelion smiled a little to see that Geralt’s head was already tipped forward, chin resting uncomfortably against his battered chest. Sometimes, all he needed was permission to let his guard down. Those were the easy times, and the bard was desperately glad that this was one of them, he needed all the rest he could get to begin healing. Reaching out, he eased Geralt’s head onto his shoulder, and leaned back, watching the embers of the fire flicker and die.


	30. Caught Unawares

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lulled into a sense of security by the promise of good ale and a warm meal, Geralt gets drunk in a tavern and unwittingly finds himself the victim of local prejudices.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooooo...it seems I forgot to post this for the prompt day "Mugged", so today is gonna be a two chapter kind of day (which is alright because the final chapter of this story is VERY short). Thank you so much all of you for your sweet comments and kudos, they bring the author SO much happiness!!

Looking back, it should have come as no surprise that he was attacked. He had been foolish. Careless and lulled into a false sense of security by too many contracts gone right, too many villages that were friendlier towards Witchers since having heard Jaskier’s songs. It was an idiotic mistake, one borne of a weakness for Redanian ale and a strong urge to simply spend a night in a tavern, drunk and warm and happy and trying to feel the way Geralt imagined humans felt, after a hard day spent working in the fields or tending their shops. Every once in a while, he craved that normalcy. Though he suspected it would be less frequent now that it had nearly been his undoing.

The evening had started off innocently enough. Jaskier had been playing in this particular tavern for the last few nights, while Geralt dealt with a cockatrice plaguing the nearby farms. The bard, though he had been too exhausted to return and perform this night, had recommended the tavern’s stew, and when questioned, had reported that all the patrons were very friendly. Of course they would be. To a bard who played their bawdy drinking songs. Not so much to a Witcher who had, not just two days before, returned bearing the corpse of a local woman who had died in the claws of a beast he had been hired to dispatch. However, Geralt had been too tired and hungry and in need of a drink to consider the implications of this, at the time. 

So, Geralt had ventured out. It was their last night in the town, and he didn’t expect to encounter another settlement for some weeks, needing to travel into the wilderness to gather herbs for some of the potions he had used up during his battle with the cockatrice. Damned thing had been enormous, and he had gone through nearly all his Tawny Owl supplies trying to take it down. Not to mention that his crossbow bolts needed re-fletching. And birds with feathers large enough and of the right shape to fletch bolts were not often found so near to settlements. 

As soon as Geralt had entered the tavern, he had realized with a small thrill of some unidentifiable emotion that he desperately missed Jaskier. The bard was always by his side these days, balancing his moody silences with an unshakeably sunny disposition and an extroverted nature that Geralt had neither the emotional range or desire to comprehend. He had nearly forgotten what it was like to go out drinking by himself. The strange looks he received, the way the tavern would grow heavily silent as he shut the door and made his way, head bowed, to the darkest corner of the room. Jaskier brought a welcoming disposition with him, without which Geralt was nothing more than a mutant, a wolf among sheep. It was a sensation that was as familiar as it was uncomfortable.

The serving wench who brought him ale stared at the dirty floorboards at her feet, seemingly transfixed by the water that poured off his boots and mingled with the spilt ale and other unthinkable substances that had been spewed here. She brought him the stew he had ordered, but her eyes were wild, so much so that Geralt wondered if she thought perhaps he would eat her instead. He supposed reassuring her that he wouldn’t would do little to help his case. He had been written off before he had ever stepped foot in this place. 

Once the girl had scurried away, rushing towards the kitchen as though it were a safe haven from the Wild Hunt itself, Geralt picked up his spoon and stirred the stew pensively. The bard had been right; he could smell that it would be excellent even before it touched his tongue. Sage, brown butter, rich meat that had clearly been hunted that day or the day before. All mixed together with bright carrots and squash, perfectly cooked potatoes, and a tangy sauce of fruit and cream resting on the top. Geralt had to smile at the thought of Jaskier ordering this. The man was prone to indulging excessively on luxurious things; he had probably eaten himself nearly half to death before the night was through. And while Geralt had mastered the art of self control, there was a part of him that wanted to do the same. The cream was rich and the fruit sauce was tangy and delicate on his tongue. After weeks of eating rotten onions and shrivelled apples, this was sweeter than the nectar of the Gods. Not that Geralt believed in any Gods, beyond those of death and skill in battle, which ruled all things. But if they did exist, he was sure they ate foods like this. Rich and delightful in a way that encompassed all the senses.

For a moment, Geralt was so enraptured by the sweet ale, the delicious stew, that he forgot the way the other patrons of the inn were watching him. The way they saw him, and the word “butcher” was immediately on their lips. It had been a while since the Witcher had heard this particular nickname, but it was still familiar to him, and not in the way of an old friend. Even after all these years, hearing the way people saw him sent a shiver up Geralt’s spine. The feeling of Renfri’s cold, dead hands running up his back in a lover’s caress, the way they had the evening before he had murdered her. Her touch was never far from him, even now. It took very little to bring that pain far too close to the surface.

Perhaps that was why he didn’t pay attention. The sweet warmth of the stew, a bit too much ale that had gone right to his head after days off surviving off nearly no food. And the feeling on Renfri’s fingers ghosting up and down his spine, soft as a lover’s touch. Even Geralt could become distracted, and he was that tonight. Lulled into a false sense of security as well, an ease that he did not normally allow himself but that, just this once, didn’t seem so bad.

He stood, when he was done his meal. Didn’t bring his dishes to the bar, because he knew it would just frighten the serving girl and the barkeep. He left a generous tip, though. It was not their fault they had heard the stories of Blaviken instead of Jaskier’s (mostly embellished) ballads. And the food had been more than satisfactory. In fact, Geralt couldn’t remember the last time he had felt so satisfied after a meal.

Wending his way through the crowd and out into the gently falling snow, Geralt took a moment on the step of the tavern to compose himself. He thought he heard the soft crunch of footsteps, but dismissed it as a drunken fantasy. It was a chilly evening; no one would be out and about unless they had no other choice. Certainly, no one would choose to skulk about the entrance to a tavern on such a night, when the soft falling of the snow did little to mitigate the frigidity of the early winter air, leaving even the yellowish glow of the street lanterns feeling far too cold. Geralt drew up his cloak. Swallowed a few times, leaned against the railing to catch his balance before stumbling out into the snow. He felt rather disoriented, not entirely sure which road led back to the inn. Perhaps he had indulged too much, he reflected. It took more alcohol than he would have liked to remove the soft touch of Renfri’s hands from his spine.

As he stumbled his way through the snow, weaving around obstacles that didn’t feel entirely real, he heard it again. The crunch of footsteps in the snow. They stopped when he stopped and lifted his head, scenting the air like a hound. But when he continued, they were there again. Geralt reached underneath his cloak, taking a few tries before he was able to get a solid grip on his dagger. Someone was following him. His heart rate sped up, adrenaline spiking in his chest, though it was dizzy and unfocused. The part of the Witcher’s brain that was still sober was admonishing him for drinking so much, when the patrons of the tavern had been giving him such unfriendly looks. He hoped he had not accidentally signed his own death warrant. Mostly, though, he was too drunk to truly understand what was happening. He stumbled on through the night, towards a side road, hoping they would not follow him there. Surely, it was considered poor manners to attack a drunken man in a back alley. Witcher or otherwise.

When he reached the wall, Geralt could go no further. There was nothing safe about the alley. The footsteps tracing his own had not stopped. But he could go no further. The street was tipping on its axis, and he had fallen to his side with less grace than he ever would have wanted to admit. Whoever was coming, they would have to face him here. He would not make it back to the inn under his own power this night.

“Well, well well. You look like you’ve gotten yourself well and truly pissed. Lucky for us, eh?”

Geralt forced his head up as he tried to gather uncoordinated legs beneath him. Everything was blurry. The people standing before him were no more than flickering shadows against the backdrop of yellow candlelight and pale snow. He grimaced, slow brain unable to find the words that should have been so easily at hand.

“Leave off.” He managed to grunt the words, though he knew even as they were spilling from his mouth that they would have no affect. Men like this were always set on their ways. And Geralt was too drunk to fight them off. He had brought it upon himself, he reflected miserably.

“Well, since you ask so nicely,” what Geralt assumed was the leader snorted, “Perhaps I won’t kill you tonight. But we’re starving something fierce around here. Blasted beast you killed has truly done our trade in. Could use some coin, eh?”

“That’s not…my concern. Take it up with your ealdorman…” Perhaps also the wrong choice of words, considering the enraged grunt they elicited from the man.

“He’s fucking dead. Killed by your beast not two days ago. Perhaps if you’d arrived sooner we wouldn’t be in this cursed predicament, eh?”

Geralt allowed himself a drunken grin. This man clearly had no idea how many times the Witcher had had exactly this thought, usually as he dragged some villager’s torn-up corpse home to relatives who had relied on him to save their loved one. 

The man misinterpreted his smile. Once again, not surprising, but Geralt was too drunk to realize that. Even when the blows began raining down, he wasn’t truly aware of what had happened, only that he hurt terribly, and that it was cold, and he was fairly sure he was bleeding from his nose. It was the only source of warmth for his frozen face.

They left him like that, relieved of the leather sack in which he kept his meagre coin and also missing his favourite dagger; a gift from Eskel that had a silver wolf with ruby eyes set into the hilt. The one knife he had never used to kill anything, but kept at his side as a reminder of his brother alone. Its loss had nearly hurt more than the beating, though by the point it was being taken Geralt was mostly unconscious, staring with drunken incredulity at his bloodied hands as they gripped weakly at the snow. As the mens’ dull footsteps crunched off into the distance, Geralt simply lay, staring up at the sky and feeling the soft, chilly touch of snowflakes as they landed on his bloody face. He coughed a few times, and he was shivering hard, hard enough to make what were surely broken ribs creak and ache in agony. He was very badly concussed as well; his vision would not focus and his head rung as though it had been struck with a mallet. Blood and spit bubbled at his lips and traced a warm path down his cheek and into the snow, and despite all this, despite the urgency of his predicament, Geralt couldn’t bring himself to care. He was too drunk, perhaps. The snowflakes were too beautiful and they stopped his pain a bit with their cold touch. He did not want to get up. He was dizzy, and tired, and he gave himself permission to rest, just for a moment. Rest, and then continue back to the inn once he was well enough that Jaskier wouldn’t notice what had happened.

\----

Geralt had left hours ago. Normally, this would not concern Jaskier; the man’s hunts took him out at all hours of the night and under all sorts of horrid conditions. The bard had learned not to expect him back in any sort of timely manner when he was on a contract. But that was precisely what was wrong with his failure to arrive back at the inn tonight. Geralt had not been on a contract. And when he was not working, the man was punctual to the second. Jaskier paced back and forth in the room, stopping once to strum an angry chord on his lute and then apologizing when it squawked profusely, a dissonant protestation of the abuse of its string. He patted it, and laid it down on the bed, elegant neck rested on a pillow. He had to do something. Most likely, Geralt had gotten pissed drunk at the tavern and lost track of time. And after all the times the Witcher had rescued him from a drunken stumble home in the snow, Jaskier was sure he would appreciate the same gesture in return. On the off chance that something worse had happened…well, the bard would be prepared. He outfitted himself with a small dagger and a heavy coat and trotted down the stairs, hoping to simply meet Geralt at the tavern and escort him home.

Outside, the air was chill and prickling, and the village was silent and calm. Beautiful, even, for a peasant place that stank of shit and cattle. Jaskier smiled a bit as he watched a family inside a candlelit home gather around a table for dinner, a little girl laughing as she brought forth a roasted leg of lamb. The bard missed sharing dinners with his own sisters. The small domestic scene warmed his belly, made him feel full and loved in a way that life on the road could not. Not that he didn’t feel loved on the road. Just, in a less familial way. 

Jaskier let himself enjoy the various other scenes of the village; men returning from the tavern and women reeling in their washing, as his feet carried him over the crunchy winter snow. He was nearly to the tavern, he realized now, and some of the patrons here were nodding to him, smiling with recognition and a few even humming the tunes he had sung the previous evening. He offered them all warm smiles, glad they had come to such a friendly place. It was a blessing, after so many months of travelling to towns where the most the ungrateful villagers could conjure up by way of payment were a few hunks of hard bread.

“Oi, bard! Where’s your lute? We missed you tonight!”

Jaskier turned and saw a grizzled old man, a farmer judging by the state of his hands and jacket, leaned up against a lamp post. He grinned and raised a hand.

“Just taking a night off, good sir, lest my voice break,” Jaskier never missed an opportunity to put on airs and graces worthy of Queen Meve of Rivia herself, “I’m actually here looking for a friend. White hair, amber eyes, gloomy disposition? I sent him here to get a drink and some fare in the hopes that it would raise his spirits a bit.”

The man’s face immediately clouded over, and he stepped forwards so menacingly that Jaskier stumbled backwards, nearly tripping in the snow. 

“You sent that mutant bastard here? Into our midst, with his bloody great swords and penchant for violence? Well, fear not. We’ve rid him of his means, and likely his wits as well, good and proper.”

Jaskier’s heart sank the moment he heard those words, which were more familiar than he would like to admit. Something terrible had happened, and his friend was injured or worse, and all after he had sent Geralt here. To a place that had been kind and welcoming to him, expecting them to treat the Witcher with the same openness. It took him mere seconds for his temper to snap. He snarled, a bit surprised and startled at his own anger as the guttural noise rasped out of his throat, and stepped forwards, chest to chest with the man and a good head taller. 

“Tell me what you did.”

“Few of the boys caught him as he was leaving for the night. Taught him a lesson, they did. Ch-check the alley that way, think that’s where they left him.”

Jaskier saw red then. He felt his fist connect with something solid that crunched satisfyingly under the weight of the heavy punch, and when his vision cleared he realized it had been the farmer’s nose. The man was groaning now, holding his face as hot blood spurted into the snow, steaming a bit. The bard was glad there was no one else around, all the other patrons of the inn appeared to have vacated at the first sign of trouble. He snarled again, and shoved the old man face-first into the snow as he pushed by, heading towards the alley with a thudding heart and a feeling of dread that usually accompanied searching out Geralt after discovering he had been wounded.

It wasn’t difficult to find the Witcher. His dark garments, along with the pool of blood surrounding him, melting away the snow, identified him immediately. Jaskier sprinted over and dropped to his knees by his friend’s side, wincing as he catalogued a litany of bloody wounds on his countenance. Calloused musician’s hands reached out and shook Geralt’s shoulder gently, not wanting to aggravate the multitude of hurts. He still groaned, though, frowning and wincing as he woke.

“Just me,” Jaskier breathed, brushing some snow off Geralt’s chest to get a better look at his injuries, “Try not to move for the moment, until I can see exactly what we’re dealing with here. Then I’ll get you back to the inn.”

Geralt looked too tired to protest. Countless similar situations had given him no choice but to put his trust in the bard, and he leaned back, shivering, as Jaskier poked and prodded, trying to cause as little damage as possible.

“What bastard hit you in the head, eh? An unarmed man, out for a drink. Gods, there’s nothing sacred in these parts anymore.”

Geralt gave a small snort, clearly remembering Jaskier’s echo of his earlier words on the mountain despite his addled state. It relieved the bard, to know he was not so far gone that he could not access his memories. He had certainly ended up this way after a nasty knock to the head in the past.

“Come on, we’ll get you to a healer, alright? They’ll be able to give you something for the pain, so you can sleep off the worst of it. You look bastard dizzy.”

In truth, Geralt had squeezed his eyes shut so hard that Jaskier was having a hard time telling if he was still conscious, but he figured this was probably due to the way the world was no doubt spinning around him. Having been on the receiving end of several concussions himself, Jaskier knew they were miserable and not to be trifled with. As much as he wanted to get out of this village before he skewered anyone with Geralt’s steel sword (or silver, he couldn’t tell with some of these people), they needed help before they could go. To make sure there would be no lasting damage, if nothing else.

Jaskier levered himself under Geralt’s arm, and thanked the Gods that he had acquired a significant amount of strength during his years travelling with the Witcher. Geralt’s books were dragging in the snow, though every once in a while he would move his legs as though he was trying to get his feet underneath him. Jaskier nudged him every time he tried this; he was sagging and clearly too disoriented to bear any weight. A few times, they had to stop so he could vomit in the gutter.

“Well, it’s good to see you took me up on my recommendation of that stew, at least. I hope you enjoyed its limited time in your stomach.”

Geralt cracked an eye and spat miserably. Jaskier patted his back, feeling more guilty than he intended to let on. After all, if he hadn’t recommended the thrice-blasted tavern, the Witcher would never have ended up in this predicament. Tucking Geralt’s hair away from his mouth as he retched again, the bard hoped he would be forgiven. After all, good deeds did unto themselves. And Jaskier was certainly in a deficit of good deeds after Geralt had saved his hide from several bandits on their journey here. Not that it mattered. He would have helped Geralt regardless. Though this would make his tenderness easier to explain when the Witcher was lucid again.

“Come on, up you get, no point in staying here longer than we need to, yeah? There’s a midwife not far from the inn. I’m sure she’ll help us.”

“Midwife?” Geralt sounded dubious as well as miserable now.

“As close to a healer as most villages in these parts have.”

Making no further comment, Geralt allowed himself to be dragged unceremoniously up the steps and into the cottage, which was clean and neat and very unlike other healers Jaskier had been to in the past. Bright candles were burning at the windowsill, and when the midwife appeared, her apron was starched white and her red hair was tied back in a neat bun. Even at this late hour, her eyes glistened with curiosity as she moved to help them over the threshold. Inside, the home smelled of healing herbs, and Jaskier breathed it in with a good deal of relief.

“What brings you here so late at night? Not a delivery, at this hour? We haven’t anyone expecting in the village as of now…”

Jaskier nearly let out an incredulous snort until he realized that this healer thought he and Geralt were messengers, bearing news of a woman about to give birth. Perhaps she thought Geralt had fainted or some such nonsense upon the sight of his labouring wife. The thought was still so humorous that the bard nearly dropped his companion in an effort to stifle his laughter.

“No. Bastards at the tavern beat him, he took a bad knock to the skull. We’ll be leaving soon, I was just hoping you could look him over and make sure he’s alright. Perhaps give him something for the pain? He’s very nauseous.”

The woman’s nose wrinkled as she appraised Geralt, who had been lowered into a chair and was staring blearily at the flickering candles, swaying back and forth as though he were on a rocking ship.

“He won’t harm you,” Jaskier interjected quickly, seeing her distaste, “And we plan on leaving as soon as he’s received the care he needs.”

“It’s not him. Those idiots in the tavern don’t know what’s good for them. Beating travellers, indeed. Soon, we’ll have no visitors to speak of if this is to be our reputation.”

She leaned over Geralt and inspected the laceration, which had coloured his hair a dark, rusty red. He winced a bit; her hands were clearly not used to the gentle work of examining wounds. Jaskier’s hand tightened around his forearm, and to the bard’s surprise Geralt leaned into him, sighing tiredly.

“Jask….where’r we?”

“Safe. Just rest.”

Geralt leaned into his shoulder, and the midwife stepped back, a small smile playing on her lips and she produced a roll of bandages from her apron.

“He seems…fond of you. I didn’t know Witchers could be fond of anyone, especially humans.”

Jaskier shrugged, not wanting to go into the details with this strange woman. He squeezed Geralt’s arm again, gently, and the Witcher pushed his head into the bard’s neck, a whimpering breath escaping his lips when it pressed on his aching wound. Jaskier hushed him tiredly, beyond caring what this woman saw or what she thought. Geralt was tired, and hurting, and he wanted nothing more than to get away from this damned place before what he had done to the old farmer came back to haunt him. He waited impatiently as the midwife bandaged Geralt’s head, which was limp in her hands, and fed him what smelled like valerian root.

When she was done, Jaskier stood to go, groaning a bit as he hefted the Witcher’s heavy frame back onto his shoulder. He dreaded having to carry him all the way back to the stable at the inn. 

“You can stay, you know. No one will dare hurt you here. They think I’m a witch. But a witch who brings their babies safely into the world, so they tolerate me for the time being.”

Jaskier shook his head.

“We never stay in one place for too long. Lest this happen again. You have my thanks.”

And he stumbled out into the night, Geralt shivering on his shoulder, but relieved at the thought that soon, they would be far away from here.


	31. By The Wayside

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ciri takes care of Geralt when she finds him, injured, on the side of the road.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little, introspective work to finish it off!

Everything was calm. Still. Quieter than a tomb at midnight, when nothing but the mice and rats skittered across its dusty floors and made way for the spirits within to reappear. No wind rustled in the trees. Not a bird cried or shifted in the cloudless sky. 

On the ground, beneath the still serenity of a cloudless summer day, in a small clump next to a hot, dusty road, knelt a woman. Her ashen hair was pulled back from her face in a large bun at the nape of her neck, and a conspicuously large sword with a rounded pommel slashed diagonally across her back, a striking cut against the pale fabric of her shirt. She knelt in the dust, no horse in sight, and if viewed from behind one would immediately notice that her hands were working furiously, elbows moving back and forth. A low stream of words exited her mouth, but even in the air, as stagnant as a millpond, they were incomprehensible. The cadence, though, was that of a prayer. Rhythmic. Slow. Monotonous, almost. 

The woman slipped a bit to the side, then. She was careful not to place her hands in the dust, for they were coated completely in blood. Some, further up her elbows, was brown and old, crusted and flaking away from her skin. Further down, though, it was fresh and raw and sticky, globular masses dripping off and landing dully in the dirt. Now that she had moved out of the way, another form became apparent. It was the body of a man. He lay on his back, not moving. One leg was elevated, his foot planted on the ground and the knee bent. The other one was stretched straight out in front of him. His hands were clenched to his chest, knuckles white and prominent amidst the dark blood that covered his fingers and wrists. The woman had moved up to his head now, was stroking his hair softly. Around him, a puddle so dark it seemed almost black had seeped into the road, dying the gravel with gore.

They stayed like this for many hours. The woman would stroke the man’s hair, which was also dyed near black with blood, though occasionally a streak of silver shone through, catching the light of the dying sun. They talked, or at least the woman did, whispering occasionally, pointing and gesturing at the world around her. Slowly, as she spoke to him, the man’s leg began to sag from its upright position. His gripping hands, which clenched spasmodically on his chest, slashed every which way by a cruel cat-o’-nine-tails, slowly stilled and became lax. Still, the ashen haired woman spoke on, lips moving minutely, words so still and silent that they could never be made out, save by their intended recipient. 

Finally, as the last dying rays of the sun spilled over the horizon, his knee his the ground. His head, tense and trembling with pain, stopped its incessant quaking. His hands flopped lifelessly at his sides.

The woman let out a soft sigh, verging on a groan. It was an agonized noise, a soft howling, almost wolf-like. She dropped her head into her hands, and slumped into the dust with a soft puff. She was still curled around the man’s head protectively, but her hands were no longer stroking through his hair. Her chest shook with silent sobs, exhausted and miserable. They stayed like that for some time, the woman sobbing, the man lying still and slumped, no visible movement in his chest. It was nigh on midnight, and the moon was high in the stagnant sky when he finally took an audible, shuddering breath. The girl shifted. Gasped. Heaved herself up on her elbows and pushed her hair out of her face, peering down at the man as though she had thought perhaps it was simply a dream. But then he breathed again, and she gave another sob, this one of relief. Her words were understandable this time, less like a prayer and more like a gentle praising.

“Thank you, father. There, you’re alright, just take it slowly. No one’s going to hurt you now. Thank you for coming back to me.”

The silver-haired man blinked up at the woman, and it became apparent in the early morning light that they were matched blades in many ways. The swords slung over the backs in mirror images of each other, the silver hair that glimmered and shone; especially now that the blood was drying and flaking away from the injured man’s head. 

And so, as the early morning sun rose, it rose on a woman, knelt and weeping in relief over the prone form of a man, whose shaky breaths sliced through the silence of the air. They were the picture of a prayer, the woman knelt praying over her father’s barely living body. And somehow, somewhere, if the gods did exist, they must have had mercy, for at that moment there came into existence an island full of apple trees. Unfindable to any except those who needed it, and across a lake that did not exist, it waited for its occupants, the man with the golden eyes and the silver hair, and the woman with the obsidian star around her neck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here we are. At the end. Let me tell you, this has been one of the best writing exercised I've done for such a long time, and I've enjoyed it so very very much!! Thank you all for coming on this wonderful journey with me. And for all the loving, kind comments and kudos and everything else you've left. They mean the world to me.
> 
> NEXT UP...I have one more chapter of Lilacs, which I'll be posting tomorrow! Then...who knows! Perhaps a sequel to Lilacs? But also, I'm so willing to take prompts!! PLEASE send me all your prompts and I will turn them into all the stories! Thank you so much for assuaging my boredom!


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